The Sea Cook
by Gemini Star01
Summary: Or, Hetalia's Treasure Island. AU. When a dying sailor leaves them the map to Captain Roma’s Treasure Island, orphaned brothers Alfred and Matthew will have to stick together to survive an adventure full of pirates, new friendships, danger and betrayal.
1. In Which the Legend is Retold

Eh. I wanted to save this story until I got a better title thought up, but nothing's coming to me, so I figured I'd go ahead and post it. If anybody gets the old literary reference, I will love you forever.

**Warnings **Some violence, a bit of blood, and sailors cursing the way they do.

_**Disclaimer:**_I don't own Hetalia, obviously, nor do I own any of the nine million version of Treasure Island out there.

**The Sea Cook; or Hetalia's Treasure Island**

**Chapter One: In Which the Legend is Retold**

_Once, long ago, there was a man who ruled over the all the seas – pirate Captain Imperious Roma. His name was known throughout Europe and the Caribbean isles, whispered reverently in the backs of pubs and fearfully in the dark corners of merchant ships. It was said that, in the ten years he ruled the seas, he and his crew of blood-thirsty seadogs sacked and sank over a hundred ships of all nationalities, leaving less than a dozen total survivors to tell the tale._

_Slowly but steadily, Roma amassed a vast fortune of plundered goods and stolen treasures – the wealth of an entire empire, all at his disposal. But Roma was a cautious man, and well aware of his own power. He knew that he was growing old and that, someday soon, someone was likely to overtake him. But he swore that no one would get their hands on his treasure that easily. _

_So, one dark day deep in the heart of the Caribbean, he found an uncharted island to claim as his own. He went ashore with fifteen men – new hires all – and journeyed deep into the jungle with the lion's share of his massive treasure trove. He returned at sunset a full day later, alone and without his riches._

_The remaining spoils he divided amongst his remaining crew. To each loyal man he awarded a small fortune, enough to start their lives anew twice over, but it was mere chicken feed compared to the trove that he had hidden away. Then, Captain Roma disbanded his crew and sailed away to live the rest of his days in the manner he preferred – wild, solitary and free. _

_He never had the chance to go back for his treasure. _

_But that's not the end of the story, oh now. Some men say that old Roma made a map detailing the exact location of his buried treasure. Were any man lucky enough to possesses this map, they could lay claim to the island and all of its riches. The loot of a pirate's empire, ripe and ready for the taking! It is the stuff of men's dreams._

_To this day, however, no one knows what has become of the map…_

"Now isn't that just the tale to rattle your bones?" the Spaniard concluded, taking a long draft of his rum. "And it's all the gospel truth, swear on my soul."

"I'm _so_ sure," said the innkeeper with a roll of her chocolate-brown eyes. Her name was Seychelles, and she had heard this story at least a dozen times in the two months the easy-going Spaniard had spent under her roof. "I think you need to lay off the rum a bit, Antonio."

The gentlemen he'd been 'entertaining' with his tale – regulars all – chuckled at that. Antonio Carriedo may have been an odd sort, an easy-going lay about and a bit of a drunk, but he was also handsome, charismatic and tipped very, very well. Given the regular drop in income that the old Admiral Benbow Inn had seen since the local port dried up, Seychelles appreciated the Spaniard's constant patronage more than she let on.

"Ah, but _who has the map?"_ Antonio chortled, pulling the demure innkeeper into his lap playfully. "That's where the mystery lies, dear girl! Somewhere in this vast world, some lucky sap is sitting on the riches of an empire. The only question is, who? Some slimy seadog who'd sooner double-cross his own mother than split the spoils with another soul? Or perhaps an upright fellow, just waiting for his lucky change and his day in the sun? Hell, perhaps it's right here, in the hands of your lovely boys! What'ya say, lads?"

All eyes suddenly fell on the two strapping young teens who had been bustling in and out of the kitchen all night. They were twins, identical at first glance but less so each time you looked, with golden-blonde hair and pale skin worn tan and red by the sun. Clearly, they were not actually related to Seychelles – who was dark all over, from her skin to her eyes to her long black hair – but they were the closest thing to family the young lady claimed. They were orphans, and she their governess. Still, they were a family. Of sorts.

The elder boy, whose name was Alfred, grinned broadly as he hoisted a heavy tray of used dishes into his arms. "Trust me, Antonio, if we had that map, we wouldn't be here bussing your tables. Ain't that right, Mattie?"

"Suppose so," the younger brother, Matthew, said with a shrug. He was more subdued than his twin, violet eyes disappearing behind his long hair as he wiped the cleared tables down.

"We'd be out searching for that treasure," Alfred continued, his blue eyes sparkling like the summer sky. "Sailing the seven seas, exploring uncharted lands, coming face-to-face with all the things that nobody's even dreamt of yet. And when we finally found that loot, we'd bring it straight back here, so Miss Seychelles could get this old place fixed up good as new and live like a queen."

"Aren't you the sweetest things?" Seychelles chuckled, knowing it was all in good fun. She squirmed out of Antonio's grip and straightened her apron with a put-upon little sigh. "As much as I i_hate/i_ to break up your little story session, I'm afraid it's closing time. The rest of you best get on home before your wives start getting out the guns again."

Alfred disappeared into the kitchen with the dishes as she shooed the guest who weren't staying the night out the door. Antonio chuckled to himself, leaning back in the old armchair with a content expression that only grew when Matthew refilled his mug.

"You're a good pair of kids, you are," he said, patting Mattie on the shoulder. "_Los bueno ninos. _Very good boys."

Alfred reappeared then, rolling up his sleeves to start the final scrub down of the dining room. Matthew hurried to assist, grabbing the second scrub brush and getting down on his hands and knees alongside him. "Did you really mean what you said back there?"

"About bringing stuff back for Seychelles?"

Matthew shook his head. "No, about sailing the world."

"Sure I did," Alfred insisted, dunking his brush back into the suds bucket again. "You want to go too, don't you? You know, have an adventure? Be a hero?"

"Well, yeah, but," Matthew scowled. "I like it here."

"I like it here, too," Alfred laughed, putting his whole weight into a particularly tough patch of mess. "That's why we'll always come back, right? Every great crew's got to have an HQ, after all. Why not make it here?"

Placated, Matthew let go of his concern and started animatedly chatting with his brother about all the 'awesome' (Alfred's word) adventures they were going to have together someday. Most were cobbled-together retellings and exaggerations of the hundreds of stories they'd heard from travelers over the years, but some were of their own invention, brilliant New Worlds born only of the twins' collective imagination.

Seychelles smiled at her 'little brothers' and their antics and slipped into the kitchen to do the dishes. Antonio had drifted off as his rum settled and his dinner digested, taking a quiet and happy siesta in front of the fireplace. Far below, where a winding dirt road forked one way to lead to the nearby village and the other two the abandoned port, the dark, steady waves of the sea thumped against a gravel beach with unending rhythm. It was a calm, quiet night, and the Admiral Benbow was at peace.

At least, it was until something strong and heavy slammed against the front door.

_BANG!_

The force of the blow was hard enough that the great oak door leapt violently on its hinges. Like cannon fire, it echoed through the entire inn, startling Antonio from his nap. Alfred and Matthew jumped a foot. "What the hell is that?"

_BANG!_ The noise came again, and was quickly followed by another, louder one. _BANG!_

"I…I think somebody's knocking," said Matthew, sounding bewildered.

Alfred climbed to his feet. "Well then, I'll answer it!"

"_Don't!" _

Antonio's voice was harsh and raspy from the rum, but commanding enough that Alfred stopped dead after only three steps. The Spaniard was on his feet, having leapt from the chair, and glaring at the door as though he expected it to attack.

"Don't," he repeated, coarser than they had ever heard from him before. "Stay back, both of you. Don't go near that door."

Alfred nodded dumbly, but only stepped back when Matthew pulled him by the arm. The banging came again, this time accompanied by a horrible scraping noise, like a rabid wolf clawing at a tree. Seychelles appeared from the kitchen, but Antonio warned her back as well, hovering between them and the door with a tense, defensive air. The door rattled, screeched and shook a few more times, then, finally, it fell silent.

This peace lasted for only a split second. With one last almighty _CRASH_, the door burst open with so much force that the wood around the knob splintered and broke. It slammed against the wall, knocking two framed paintings and an unlit candlestick to the ground. The glass chattered on impact. Seychelles screamed. And standing on their doorstep was…

A demure little white-haired girl.

_**TBC…**_


	2. In Which Antonio is Sentenced to Death

**The Sea Cook; or Hetalia's Treasure Island**

**Chapter Two: In Which Antonio is Sentenced to Death**

The girl was young, possibly even younger than Matthew and Alfred, and impossibly pale. Her hair was long, white and perfectly straight, pulled away from her eyes with a cute black bow that, when coupled with her lacy apron and suede boots, made her look a little like the heroine of a fantasy book they had once read. In one hand, she carried a severe-looking kitchen knife with a foot-long blade. From the deep gashes left in the old wood, they could only assume that was what she had been using on the door.

She stepped into the inn without a sound, her expression as black as a recently- washed blackboard. Her cold navy eyes scanned the dining room, taking in the three figures huddled in the corner – where Alfred was standing in front of Matthew and Seychelles as though he could protect them that way – before they finally landed on Antonio.

A cold smile crept across her features. "Antonio España."

"Natalia," Antonio replied, making no acknowledgement of the bizarre second name. "It's been a long time."

"Too long," the girl Natalia whispered, crossing the floor to stand before him. She trailed the fingers of her free hand up the Spaniard's neck, caressing his cheek and chin. "My dear brother and the Captain have been searching for you, Antonio. They've been searching a very, very long time."

Alfred swallowed heavily, groping behind him until he found Matthew's hand. From here, he could see Antonio reaching around to the back of his belt. He kept a gun there, Alfred knew. Antonio was _afraid_ of this girl.

"You've been a very, very bad boy, Antonio," Natalia cooed, as though she were talking to a baby. "Did you really think you would get away with it? You tried to take it all for yourself and leave your shipmates with nothing."

Her eyes flashed dangerously at that, and she dug her nails into Antonio's cheek. "You thought that you would leave _my big brother_ with _nothing_."

She slashed him across the cheek like a cat, drawing blood and leaving long scratched in the seaman's flesh. Antonio took it without a word. Seychelles gasped in horror.

"That is why they sent _me_," Natalia hissed, licking the blood from her fingertips. "Big brother knew that I could track you down, no matter where you tried to hide. And now that I've found you, there's nowhere for you to run."

Now that her fingers were free of blood, she reached into the pocket of her apron and drew out something small and flat – a piece of paper. She leaned very close, pressing it into his palm and standing on her tip-toes to whisper in his ear. "This is for you, Antonio. From all of us."

Antonio looked at it, and his hand began to tremble. With a shout, he drew his pistol and shot her, right in the stomach.

Seychelles screamed again, and the twins grabbed hold of one another. Natalia had dodged at the last second and the bullet had missed. Now she was whirling around, her hair snapping behind her like a whip as she brought her knife down. It sliced deep into Antonio's arm, shattering the bone. Antonio yelled in pain and dropped the gun.

Alfred would have lunged into the fight at that point, but Seychelles and Matthew held him back. With his good arm, Antonio grabbed Natalia by the hair and threw her to the ground.

"You won't have it!" he raged, lunging for his gun. "Do you hear me? So help me god, none of you _bastardos_ will _ever_ have it! Not you, not Ivan, and not Ar–!"

Natalia let out an animalistic shriek at the second name, slashing up with her knife. It cut deep into Antonio's side and stuck there, spraying the floor with blood.

Antonio fell to the ground, gasping for every strangled breath. The scream stuck in Seychelles's throat, strangled by her horror. Natalia fled into the night, leaving her weapon behind.

A single piece of paper rested in the palm of Antonio's hand. Dead center, it bore a spot as black as the darkest abyss.

"Is…Is he going to be okay?"

Matthew's words were choked and hesitant with shock. They had managed to slow Antonio's bleeding with a few spare towels and carried the seaman into his room, but the damage was so severe that they knew it wouldn't be enough.

Seychelles looked back at him with uncertainty. "I don't know," she said softly. "But I'm going to go call a doctor. You boys stay with him, all right?"

The twins nodded, and their governess left the room. Matthew rubbed his eyes, clinging to the old, tattered white bear he always held when he was nervous or scared. Alfred had teased him about it once or twice, but never seriously, just like Matthew never teased him about having to share a bed after hearing a scary story. Even a hero needed comfort sometimes.

"I just don't get it," Matthew said gloomily, gazing down at the sleeping Spaniard. "Who was that woman? Why would she want to hurt him? Why would anybody want to hurt him?"

"Beats me, Mattie," Alfred said, and frowned. Antonio was still clutching the piece of paper that the girl had handed him, the black spot watching them like an unblinking, unseeing eye. Alfred reached for it. "And what do you think about this thing, huh? What is it, anyway?"

"_The Black Spot!"_

Matthew yelped and Alfred leapt back as Antonio suddenly snapped back to consciousness, drawing in a harsh breath. "The Black Spot! _Dios mio, _they're coming for me! The Black Spot!"

"Antonio, please calm down!" Matthew gasped. "You're hurt!"

"Yeah, you'll be in big trouble if you keep trashing around like that!" Alfred chimed in, trying to hold the Spaniard down. "Quit freaking out over that stupid piece of paper!"

"You don't understand!" Antonio insisted, grabbing Alfred by the collar and dragging him down until they were face-to-face. "The Black Spot is a pirate's death sentence. They'll be coming to finish me off! Tonight!"

He choked then, coughing up a mouthful of blood. Alfred shoved away from him and scrambled back, grabbing onto Matthew. The Spaniard moaned pitifully and writhed in pain against the mattress until he finally lay still. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

Mathew stepped forward, clutching his bear. "An-Antonio?"

"Boys…"

Antonio coughed, grasping the air with his good hand. Matthew clasped it with his own and allowed himself to be pulled to the bedside. _"Mateo. Alfredo. _You've always been good boys, you have. _Los bueno ninos…_"

He coughed again, and more blood came up. Alfred crept up beside his brother, placing a hand on Matthew's shoulder. Though they had never seen it before, something in them knew: they were watching a man die.

"You have to take it."

"Take what?" Matthew asked, breathless.

"The map. Take the map. From my sea chest," Antonio motioned weakly to the chest at the end of his bed. "There."

The twins exchanged a look. Alfred went around to the trunk and began digging through its contents. Matthew stayed by the bed, holding Antonio's hand. "I don't understand," he said softly. "A map of what?"

"An otherwise uncharted island in the heart of the Caribbean sea," Antonio chuckled. "You follow those coordinates and directions, and it'll lead you straight to old Roma's treasure."

Alfred's head snapped up. "No _way!_ You mean you really–?"

"Aye," Antonio whispered, lost for a moment in the fond memories. "Old Roma was a regular _bastardo_, but he made a good captain, were you willing to loyally serve. I gave eight years of my life under his flag, and as my reward, he gave me what I needed to be set for life."

Matthew pulled his eyes from the dying man and looked to his brother. Alfred was digging through the chest again, pushing clothes and tools and papers to the side. Finally, his hands fell on a worn, leather cylindrical case that was just soft enough to be easily storable and just sturdy enough to protect its contents.

Alfred held his breath as he undid the black ties that held the cylinder closed. With careful hands, he drew out the parchment inside and spread it out on top of the chest.

It was exactly as Antonio had said: the map to Treasure Island.

"Beware!" Antonio gasped, and choked on the word. _"G-Guardese ninos…_"

Alfred jumped, rolling the map back up and stuffing it away, rushing back to the bedside. "What? Beware what?"

"The rest of old Roma's crew," Antonio insisted, still coughing heavily. "They'll be coming for me and the map, tonight. You have to take it, and you have to get out of here, both of you and Seychelles, or they'll butcher you all."

Alfred clutched the map with one hand and grabbed his brother's shoulder with the other. He could almost hear them, on the boundaries of his imagination, charging up the cliff with guns and swords and death in their eyes…

"That girl who came today, her brother is the most vicious of the lot. He is tall, a giant, and pale like her. In vicious anger, his fury cannot be matched. But he is not the worst of them." Antonio coughed again, splattering blood across the pillowcase, and clutched Matthew's hand like the lifeline in a storm. "Beware the one-legged man…"

"What?" Matthew gasped, clutching his bear with one arm.

"Beware the one-legged man!" Antonio shouted, loud enough to leave their ears ringing. "He's the one who have to watch out for, god yes. Heart's as black as pitch, he's ruthless and stingy and cruel to boot. Never turn your back on him, and if you see him coming, get away as quickly as you can. He'll stop at nothing to get that map, nothing!"

He cut off with a strangled choke, making a weak final squeak. He sank back against the pillows, his eyes unfocused for a moment before they finally closed. His mouth was red with his own blood.

"Antonio?" Matthew asked, hesitant.

"Do you smell that, _ninos?_" Antonio asked with a smile, his nose sniffing at the air. "Smells like…tomatoes…"

And with those final mysterious words, he died.

_**TBC…**_


	3. In Which Our Heroes are Forced to Flee

**The Sea Cook; or Hetalia's Treasure Island**

**Chapter Three: In Which Our Heroes are Forced to Flee**

The twins barely had time to comprehend the fact that Antonio Carriedo – their friend for all of two months, or had that all been a lie, like his name? – had passed away when the sound of a gunshot and a shattering window echoed from downstairs.

They glanced at each other for a split second before leapt into action. Matthew grabbed is bear, Alfred grabbed the map and together they ran out the door, keeping perfect time with one another's steps.

Seychelles was stepping out of her room as they entered the hall, equally startled by the commotion from downstairs. "For god's sake, boys, what's happened now?"

"Run, Miss Seychelles!" Alfred cried, grabbing her by the arm. "We have to get out of here!"

"Yeah!" Matthew chimed in, seizing her other wrist. "We can't stay here anymore!"

"What on earth are you boys going on about?" the governess sputtered, not quite letting herself be led away.

"It's pirates, Miss Seychelles!"

"Yeah, they're after this!" Alfred shoved the hastily-rewrapped map under her nose. "Antonio said they'll kill us to get it!"

Seychelles shook her arms out of their grip. She now stood at the top of the stairs, her hands on her hips, dead-set against going any further. "That's absolutely ridiculous! Really, what _is_ that man thinking, getting you both so worked up at a time like this? And in his condition!"

"You don't have to worry about _that_ anymore," Matthew muttered, but his words were so soft and so muffled by his bear that she didn't hear him.

"And all over something like this!" Seychelles snatched the map from Alfred's grip, ignoring his protests. "There is no way that _anyone _would be willing to come after this worthless thing! Especially not Antonio Carriedo's imaginary pir–"

Her words were cut off by another shattering pane, this one the window beside the front door. A beer bottle arched through the broken glass, curving an elegant arch through the air and into the building. For a split second, time seemed to stand still. A piece of cloth dangled from the bottle's neck. It was on fire.

"Get i_down/i,_ boys!" Seychelles screamed, and dragged the twins below the banister just as the bottle shattered against the dining room floor. The oil and gunpowder mixture inside ignited instantly, setting everything flammable – and it was _all_ flammable – aflame.

Seconds later, the front door, which had been hastily pushed to after Natalia's departure, was knocked off its hinges and fell to the floor.

"Oh, Espa~aña," called a heavily-accented voice from the dark. A maniacal chatter unlike anything they'd ever heard followed soon after – _kol kol kol kol kol…_

On the landing, Seychelles clutched the boys, Matthew clutched his bear and Alfred clutched the map close to their respective chests. With a weak, unsteady voice, Seychelles whispered, "Boys. The back stairs. Hurry."

Alfred nodded, though she couldn't see him, and grabbed Matthew by the hand. They untangled themselves and fled as a group towards Seychelles's bedroom, using the thick smoke from the burning dining room as their cover.

"Hey, you hear that?" called a new voice with a new accent, cackling with crazed laughter. "Footsteps upstairs!"

"You can't hide from us, España," said the voice from before. "You know you're there."

Matthew slammed the door shut behind them, blocking out any further taunts and the inevitable discovery of Antonio's body. He barely had time to get clear before Alfred shoved the heavy chest of drawers onto its side, barricading the door. "C'mon!"

"Wait!" Seychelles insisted, running to the toppled furniture. "I have to get something!"

"But we don't have _time!"_

Matthews screech was very nearly right. As Seychelles tugged open the chest's top drawer, a black cracked through the door. It was an axe, but not the simple kind they used for chopping wood. This one was huge, craft and sharpened to perfection, meant for removing human heads from their necks in the head of battle.

"Can't get away from us!" its wielder cackled, yanking it free for another blow.

"Miss Seychelles, come on!" Alfred begged. He was standing at the door to the rear stairs, the only entrance to the back door, their wine cellar and emergency exit.

As another stroke crashed over her head, Seychelles pulled away from the dresser with a five-colored cloth clutched to her breast. Wrapped inside was a fish made of beaten silver, the symbol of her family and homeland and the only thing she had left from either of them.

She joined the boys and they fled down the back stairs, bolting the doors behind them to buy a few more precious seconds. Pumped on adrenaline as they were, it took only ten minutes to hook old Annabelle, their only horse, to a market cart. Alfred took the reins while Matthew and Seychelles leapt into the back. They burst through the stable doors just before the pirates caught up with them, charging into the night. Someone tried to take a few pot-shots at them as they disappeared, but none of the bullets ever came close to hitting.

They were all the way down the hill and half-way to the village before anyone dared to glance back. It was Matthew who risked it first, and the sight nearly made him swallow his own tongue.

The Admiral Benbow – their home for the last six years, and Seychelles's pride and joy – was going up in flames.

The inferno chased them through the night, even as they curved away from the village and headed deeper inland. It remained, a fiery cinder in the distance, as a haunting reminder of the peaceful past to which they could never return.

**(-)**

They road the rest of the night in silence, broken only by quietly whispered directions from Seychelles. They switched off drivers every two hours to stay alert. Those who weren't driving slept in the cart, curled around each other and their respective treasures as though the scattered hay could hide them from their nightmare.

Finally, as the sun was arching over the horizon, they arrived at their destination: London.

Seychelles took the reins then, guiding them through streets the boys had only known once and long ago. She steered them away from the marketplace and the seedier parts of town until they finally came to a pleasant, tree-lined boulevard with cobblestone streets and lovely, distinctly similar houses lining every block.

"This is it," she finally announced, pulling the cart up in front of a fancy brick house that looked similar to, but not exactly like, all the other fancy brick houses on the street.

The twins scrambled out of the cart, still clutching the map and the bear and each other's hands and trying to ignore the odd looks that the passerby were giving them. They were all covered in soot, singed, disheveled and tired after being tossed around all night like vegetables in a salad. Seychelles chose not to acknowledge any of this, striding straight up to the door with barely a flick of her hair. She rang the bell. The twins tried to huddle behind her, and instead, she pulled them around to the front.

A moment later, a shy-looking young servant girl with short blonde hair cracked open the door. She peered at them wearily and croaked, "Yes?"

"Is this the home of Miss Elizaveta Hardestvey?" Seychelles asked politely.

Before the girl could answer, a much louder, more eager voice chimed from further inside. "Why of _course _it is! Open the door a bit more, Liechtenstein, and let me see who it is!"

Liechtenstein obeyed, stepping back and letting the door swing open to reveal the lady of the house. She was well-dressed and well-built, with a broad smile and long brown hair decorated with flowers. She was holding a coffee cup, enjoying her morning meal, but dropped it when she caught sight of the disheveled innkeeper on her doorstep. "Seychelles! My god, is that really you?"

"Elizavetta," Seychelles said with familiarity, placing a hand on each of the twin's shoulders. "I'm afraid we've found ourselves in a bit of a bind. May we come in?"

"Yes, yes, of course!" Elizaveta gasped, rushing forward as though she would scoop all three of them into a hug if only her arms had been long enough. "You poor things! Come inside, quickly, we'll get you cleaned up and you can tell us all about it."

Seychelles smiled, and the twins grinned back at her. If nothing else had gone right today, at least they still had friends.

_**TBC…**_


	4. In Which the Expedition Receives a

**The Sea Cook; or Hetalia's Treasure Island**

**Chapter Four: In Which the Expedition Receives a Financier**

Miss Elizaveta Hedervary had been Seychelles's neighbor and schoolmate since the day the island native had first immigrated to London. Though they had gone their separate ways after their school years, the two ladies kept close contact, even after Elizaveta had been wed to the young noble Squire Roderich Edelstein.

Now washed, scrubbed and wearing new clothes – purchased while they were in the bath by a dutiful Liechtenstein and her brother – Seychelles and her young wards sat in her old classmate's parlor, nibbling at the preoffered snacks and recounting their tale as best they could.

"My _goodness,"_ Elizaveta gasped, a hand pressed daintily over her mouth. "And you say it all burnt to the ground? The entire inn?"

"Every bit of it," Seychelles sighed, closing her eyes as the pain of the memory washed over her.

"Good gracious," Elizaveta breathed again, and patted her friend's hand. "You poor thing, after all of your hard work. I'm so sorry, Seychelles."

"So I am, Elizaveta," Seychelles whispered, fingering her silver fish. "So am I."

Matthew, who still had fairly little appetite after everything that had happened, nibbled half-heartedly on a biscuit. His bear, which had been hand-washed by the ever-dutiful Liechtenstein, sat on his lap with a depressed, put-upon expression. Alfred – similarly without appetite to everyone's surprise – sat fingering the warm leather case in his lap, contemplating every crease and curve.

"It certainly seems you three have been through more than your fair share of hardships," Elizaveta's husband, Sir Roderich Edelstein, said gravely. He set his empty teacup on a saucer and allowed it to be spirited away by Vash, Liechtenstein's stern-faces elder brother who seemed nothing more than a butler until you noticed the rather impressive pair of handguns strapped to his belt. "You're welcome to stay here as long as you like, of course. We'll do everything we can to help you get back on your feet."

Seychelles smiled in spite of herself. "Thank you, Roderich, but I don't even know where to start.

"I do."

Alfred's voice startled everyone, Liechtenstein so badly that she nearly dropped the teacup she was holding. The boys had been so quiet throughout the entire meal that the adults had almost forgotten they were there.

Alfred clutched the leather envelope tightly with both hands, a familiar look of determination spreading across his features. "I know exactly what we've got to do. We've got to go find this treasure!"

Matthew looked understandably uncertain. "Alfred…"

"Just what are you going on about?" Roderich asked, frowning at the teen. "What 'treasure'?"

"Captain Roma's treasure!" Alfred insisted, wheeling on his brother. "Tell him, Mattie, you were there! Antonio said that this is the map to Captain Roma's secret island! The place where he buried all his treasure!"

Matthew squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "That's what he said, all right."

"See for yourself!" Alfred said, hopping out of his chair and shoving the map under Roderich's nose. "This is the real deal, the genuine article, one-hundred percent authentic!"

"Alfred, that's enough," Seychelles scolded in a tone she hadn't used since the boys had hit puberty.

Elizavetta, on the other hand, seemed fairly amused. "What is he going on about?"

Seychelles sighed. "Oh, just some nonsense fairy tale Antonio liked to fill their minds with when he got drunk."

"No, wait," Roderich said, taking the map. "I've heard this legend before. Captain Roma, you said? Imperious Roma?"

Alfred nodded eagerly and was pleased to see a spark of interest flash behind the other's thick lenses. The 'young master' had been giving the twins something of a cold shoulder ever since they arrived – Al suspected that he found them uncouth or ill-mannered or somehow less civilized that his liking – but now they had his attention.

Roderich motioned for Vash to clear away a part of the table, and it was done. With steady hands, the squire drew the old parchment out of its case and spread it across the table for all to see.

It was hand-drawn, of course, but clearly the cork of a trained cartographer. The latitude and longitude lines were perfectly straight, guiding the smooth ink that pained the rugged island coastline with all the skill of a true artist. Lush forests and detailed beaches decorated the exotic new land, parting only to give way to a curving path and detailed instructions. They all lead to the darkest heart of the jungle, the very center of the island, where a large "X" marked in deep red ink – the same color as dried blood – marked the site of the hidden trove.

"The craftsmanship is exquisite," Roderich nodded appreciatively, running his fingers along the edge of the map. "Even the artistic details are to scale. Clearly, the work of a master, but these coordinates…Vash, will you please bring me –"

Before he could even finish his sentence, the butler/bodyguard appeared with a detailed globe. "Ah, yes. Excellent. Thank you."

Vash rolled his eyes and handed over the globe. Alfred was starting to wonder if the man was mute, or if he just didn't like giving voice to his employer's more foppish peculiarities.

Roderich was soon engrossed in the globe and his compass, calculating the exact location indicated on the map. Everyone was waiting in eager anticipation – even Seychelles, in spite of herself.

"Oooh," Elizaveta gasped, practically beside herself. "Isn't this _exciting, _Liechtenstein?"

"I-I suppose so," whispered the girl, clutching her tea tray. Alfred and Matthew were holding their breath.

Finally, after double- and triple-checking his calculations, Roderich sat up and laid the globe aside with a sigh. "The coordinates indicate a yet-uncharted area on the far western edge of the Caribbean Islands territories."

Alfred looked about ready to burst. "But what does that _mean?!_"

"It means," Roderich said carefully, lifting the map off the table and into the light of the window, "that I have no reason to conclude that this map is anything but genuine."

"Then we'll definitely follow it!" Alfred cheered, leaping up from his couch and seizing his brother's hands. "Think of it, Mattie, it'll be just like we always planned! We'll find the treasure, and we'll bring it home and then we'll rebuild the Admiral Benbow a hundred times over! It'll be awesome!"

"I-I guess it would be pretty cool!" Matthew agreed with an awkward laugh. "I mean, if we could really go."

"I see no reason why not," chimed in Roderich with an odd tone in his voice.

Elizaveta nearly squealed. "Roderich, does that mean what I think it means?"

"Of course. If this map really does lead to the treasure of Imperious Roma, it would be more than worth any investment needed to locate it. I'll even fund the expedition myself."

Alfred spin around and dragged Matthew with him to look up at the young master with pleading eyes. "And we can come, too?"

"Every ship needs cabin boys," Roderich said in an off-handed manner, rolling up the charts. "And it is your map, after all."

"You hear that, Mattie? Do you _hear_ that?" Alfred cheered rhetorically, hugging his twin. "This is gonna be so awesome! We're really gonna go to sea!"

"You most certainly will _not_."

The excitement and celebration was instantly killed by Seychelles's sudden sternness. The former innkeeper had her head lowered and her hands fisted in the colorful cloth she had brought with her from the inn. Her shoulders were shaking violently, like she was trying very hard not to cry.

"How could I ever…how could I _possibly_ let you boys go off on such a pointless expedition?!" she snapped, her tone harsh and broken. "It's far too dangerous! You're too young!"

"But Miss Seychelles," Alfred said weakly. "The treasure…"

"The treasure's not real, Alfred," the governess insisted. "That map doesn't prove anything. For all we know, this is just stupid Antonio's idea of a huge prank."

"Perhaps so," Roderich interjected, clearing his throat. "But it's not likely that anyone would be willing to kill a man over a prank, and there's no way of knowing for sure without an investigation."

"Then do it yourself, but leave the boys out of it!" Seychelles snapped. She was crying now, tears splashing against the backs of her hands. "I may have lost the Inn, but I'm still their guardian! It's too dangerous out there, and they're too _young!_"

"Miss Seychelles?" Matthew interrupted, struck with a sudden bolt of determination. "How old was our father when he first went to sea?"

Seychelles stopped short at that. The twins' father, a dominion-born immigrant like her, had spent his life on the sea in the service of the royal navy. When he had returned from one long journey with two golden children in his arms and asked her to keep an eye on them the next time he traveled, she had been unable to refuse. Five years later, he was thrown from the deck in a battle with pirates and neither seen nor heard from again…

"Well? How old was he?"

She swallowed before answering. "Thirteen."

"Well, Al and me are almost fourteen now," Matthew reasoned. "It it was old enough for him, don't you think it's old enough for us, too?"

Seychelles bit her lip. A few tears dripped down her cheeks. "But I…I…"

"Seychelles," Elizaveta said softly, placing a hand over the other woman's. "They're not children anymore. They're young men now. You have to give them the chance to grow and explore, to come into their own. Let them discover the world for themselves."

"I spent a few months at sea myself, when I was their age," Roderich added, clearing his throat. "It's a wonderful way to build a young gentleman's character."

Seychelles remained still and quiet for a moment longer. Then she climbed to her feet and threw her arms around the twins' shoulders.

"You boys are all I have left in the world," she said desperately. "I don't want to lose you."

"You won't," Matthew assured.

"Yeah, we'll be back. We promise!" Alfred chimed in. "And we'll really, _really_ careful."

Seychelles chuckled a bit and tightened her hold, her tears leaving wet spots on the shoulders of their shirts. "Just don't get yourselves killed. And promise me you'll look out for each other."

"We will," the twins chorused with conviction, and grinned at one another over the back of her head.

"Then it's settled," Roderich announced, clearing his throat once more for emphasis. "In one month, we depart for Treasure Island."

_**TBC…**_


	5. In Which the Captain is Unsatisfied

**The Sea Cook; or Hetalia's Treasure Island**

**Chapter Five: In Which the Captain is Deeply Unsatisfied with His Crew**

One month later, almost to the day, Alfred and Matthew stood on the edge of a crowded dock and stared up at the most beautiful ship either of them had ever seen.

The tiny port that had fed the Admiral Benbow for so long had only received small fishing boats and the occasional whaling vessel. Even the elaborate merchant ships that wandered their way looking for trade tended to be small and humble, representing no significant loss if they ran aground on the rocky shores.

But this ship – the _Hetalia_, he name was – was a masterpiece. A former navy clipper refurbished for private use, she towered a full two stories above the dock. Her mast bore grand sails into the sky like massive clouds, stringing her flags so high they could not be seen from where the teens stood. On her bow, a shy mermaid cupped her own cheek and turned her head from the crowd with a maidenly blush, as though ashamed of her own simplicity. And it was true that there were larger, grander and more extravagant vessels moored at this very dock. But the _Hetalia_ outranked them all in beauty and wonder simply because she was _theirs_.

"Lovely, isn't it?" Roderich said as he came up behind the boys. "Certainly nothing extravagant, but she should do nicely."

"She's _beautiful_," Matthew breathed in wonder, and Alfred could only nod his head in assent.

Roderich chuckled, bemused by their youthful exuberance. He pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat and flipped it open smartly. "It's about time for the crew to board and prepare. I suppose we should do the same. Elizaveta?"

"Coming, coming!"

Elizaveta pushed through the crowd with more force than expected from a young lady of noble birth. Then again, she wasn't exactly dressed like a noblewoman either. Her new clothes had simple earth tones, and her skirt was cut to her mid-tights, with her ankles only hidden by the thick leather boots that she wore underneath. She had just finished leaving _two_ trunks in the care of a rugged-looking seaman, with instructions to take them up to Roderich's designated cabin.

Alfred and Matthew took all of this in and came to the only logical conclusion. "You're coming with us, Miss Elizaveta?"

"Why, of course," Elizaveta giggled, squeezing her husband's arm coquettishly. "My dear Roderich may look like he's always in control, and trust me, he works very hard to keep it that way, but he'd just fall all to pieces if I wasn't there to keep an eye on him."

Roderich flushed and the twins giggled. Their one-month stay in the young master's home had indeed revealed him to be mildly scatterbrained, conceivably because his head was so full of the music he liked to play at all hours of the day. He had _not _decided to bring his piano with him on this voyage, but he had invested in a small melodeon, which could be wheeled from his cabin onto the deck if he so chose.

Matthew brushed a bit of his eyes and glanced back to Elizaveta. "But what about Miss Seychelles?"

"Miss Seychelles is to remain in London," Vash muttered sourly from Roderich's other side. The month had also revealed that he was not, in fact, mute – just particularly quiet when he was ill-tempered, which was almost always. "In the care of my sister."

"Don't you worry, boys," Elizaveta said pleasantly as they made their way up the gangplank. "Liechtenstein will take good care of your mother while we're gone."

"She's not our mother," the twins chorused. Their words carried neither resentment nor insult. They were merely a statement of fact.

Elizaveta quirked a curious eyebrow, but by that time they had stepped onto the _Hetalia's_ deck and there were a number of other distractions on which to focus.

The crew bustled about them, scurrying this way and that in preparation for their departure. Lines were tested, cargo was loaded, riggings were checked, double-checked, triple-checked and checked a fourth time for good measure. All around them, people were in motion, never pausing for more than a breath before scurrying off to the next task.

Conducting it all from the top of a raised platform was a stern-faced man with slicked-back blonde hair, who glared at the world through serious blue eyes and commanded the crew like troops in an army. "You there! Check the bindings on the forward canons! The last thing we need is one of those blasted things rolling around during departure."

"Ve, Ludwig!" chimed in a cheerful-looking man with short brown hair and a laid-back expression. He saluted the commander sloppily, wobbling on legs that were still unused to the sea. "The cargo's almost all loaded! Just a few more crates of rations and we'll have it all on!"

"Good," the man Ludwig nodded, and stepped down from his platform when he spotted the approaching group.

Roderich seemed pleased by the firm hand being taken with the crew and approached the commander with a smile. "Everything ship-shape and ready to go, Captain?"

"There's not really another shape she could be, sir," Ludwig deadpanned humorlessly, "and I'm not the captain. He's up there."

He nodded to the crow's nest. Craning their heads back, Matthew and Alfred could just catch sight of a dark blue military jacket darting around the look-out with ease.

Ludwig took a deep breath. That and his brown-haired friend stuffing fingers into his ears were the only warning the others were given before he shouted, "_Brother!_ The benefactor's on board!"

"All right, all _right!_" The figure in the crow's nest shouted down in annoyance, just before he catapulted himself over the edge.

Elizaveta gasped and Matthew grabbed Alfred's arm in horror. The blue-coated form plummeted towards the deck but, at the last moment, grabbed hold of a mast rigging with one hand. He swung around and around it like an acrobat, sliding down the taunt length as he did, his hand protected by thick leather gloves. At the end of the line he let go, arched through the air, and landed on his feet barely a meter away.

Elizaveta, Matthew and Roderich all gasped. Vash and Ludwig rolled their eyes.

"Okay," Alfred admitted. "That was kind of awesome."

The captain grinned as the straightened to his full height, clearly pleased with his entrance. He was about the same age as Roderich, though his roguish features made him seem younger and his nearly white hair skewed him slightly older. The individual articles of his clothing were all pieces of a military-issued naval captain's uniform, but he was obviously taking advantage of his personal command to wear them as casual and flamboyantly as he wished.

"Well now," he said with a wide grin and a tip of his hat. "I'll take it you're the rich bastard who hired me for this, then?"

"I…" Roderich stumbled a bit on the crude language, cleared his throat and started over. "Yes. Yes, I am Squire Roderich Edelstein…"

"Pleasure to meet yeh," the captain said, clasping his hand for a rough and fairly brutal greeting. "Captain Gilbert Weillschmidt_. _Served in the royal navy for eight years, captained there for six, 'til they tried to tell me how to run my ship on a personal level, at which point I told 'em to fuck off. This here's my baby brother Ludwig, the best first mate you'll ever find, and the perky fellow off to the side there is his assistant, Feliciano."

Ludwig bowed respectfully at his introduction, reacting to neither the praise nor the 'baby brother' comment. Feliciano grinned and waved as though he were greeting them from the shore rather than barely a foot away.

Roderich cleared his throat again, clearly out of his preferred depths. "It's certainly a pleasure to miss you all…"

"And who is _this_ pretty young thing?" Gilbert saddled up to Elizaveta with a lecherous sort of grin. "Hey there, love. You know, they say it's bad luck to have a woman on board for a long voyage like this, but I think I might make an exception for a lovely lady like yourself. Should I show you to my cabin…?"

"This is Elizaveta," Roderich interrupted. "My _wife_."

To emphasize his point, Vash cocked one of his handguns noisily. Gilbert stopped in mid-flirt. He straightened, cleared his throat, folded one arm behind his back and kissed Elizaveta's hand respectfully. "It's a pleasure to meet you, madam."

"The pleasure's all mine, I'm sure," Elizaveta chuckled, not bothering to hide her amusement.

Alfred and Matthew laughed out loud. Gilbert gave them a sour glare. "These runts belong to you as well?"

"We're not runts!" Alfred insisted, and they really weren't, for young teens. The top of his head was almost even with Gilbert's shoulder.

Roderich stepped in, placing a hand on Alfred's shoulder. "CaptainWeillschmidt, this is Alfred and Matthew Williams-Jones. They've been contracted as crewmen on this voyage, the same as all the rest."

"Ah yes," Gilbert said dismissively. "The cabin boys."

He turned away. Alfred made a face at his back.

"They _also_ happen to be the young gentlemen currently in possession of the treasu–"

Gilbert twisted around, fast as lightning, and clapped a hand over Roderich's mouth. His red eyes blazed with sudden fury. "I'd shut up if I were you."

Vash's hands went to his guns again. Around them, a few crewmen stopped their work to give them an odd look. A sharp word from Ludwig and they were back on duty, but the odd tenseness remained. It made Matthew shiver.

"I think we all need to have a talk," Gilbert said slowly, releasing Roderich with the implicit condition that he remain silent. "In my cabin. _Now._"

With a slightly better understanding of just why this man was captain, the group obeyed.

Once they were all inside the captain's quarters, Ludwig shut and locked the door behind them. Gilbert sighed heavily and made his way around the desk to his seat.

"Squire Edelstein, will all due respect, I have to ask you a very serious question." He placed both hands on the desktop and glared at the bespectacled man. "Are you a fucking idiot?"

"Excuse me?!"

"Because that's the _only_ thing I can think of that would make any sober man think it was a good idea to start blabbering on about a bloody treasure map in front of _this_ fucking crew!" Gilbert snapped, and slammed his hands on the desk for emphasis.

Feliciano was almost unnaturally unfazed by it all, rubbing a finger in his ear. "Ve ve, Gilbert gets so loud when he's annoyed."

"Really," Elizaveta muttered, glancing to the twins. "Captain, must you use such harsh language around the young ears?"

"We've heard worse, Miss Elizaveta," Matthew assured.

"Yeah, all the sailors from the port used to come to our place to get drunk."

Gilbert grinned a little at that. "Good, 'cause I won't be holding back for anybody. Not even you, pretty lady." He sank back into his chair and threaded his fingers together with a kind of grave superiority. "Let me be perfectly frank with you all. I am not particularly fond of this crew _you_ hired."

"And just what is wrong with them?" Roderich demanded, still visibly flustered by the insult to his intelligence.

It was Ludwig who supplied the answer. "They're unprincipled, uncivilized, undisciplined and, judging from their looks, have a collective criminal record long enough to properly paper the walls of every cabin on this ship."

"Ve, and they're all nasty and touchy about just about everything!" Feliciano added. "It's like they're all ready for some huge fight, no matter what happens!"

"Still, seeing as you're the one footing the bill, and it'll be awfully messy to try to change hands at this point in the game, I can't see any alternative but to set sail with this lot," Gilbert finished off, leaning back in his chair. "But from now on, all discussion about our destination, our navigation and, _most importantly_, our reason for sailing there, is to be kept between this inner circle, and only discussed here, in this cabin. Do I make myself clear?"

With some minor grumbling, the group gave their assent.

"Good. That settles that. Now," Gilbert kicked back in his chair, perched his feet on the desk and motioned to the twins without looking at them. "Let me see that map."

Alfred scowled and glanced to their benefactor for permission. Roderich sighed, rubbing his temples. "Go ahead, lad."

Still frowning, Alfred dug into his rucksack and pulled out the map, shoving it into Gilbert's grip. "Here."

The captain unfolded the charts with ease, holding them up to be seen by the light of the sun. He grinned. "This is going to be an interesting trip."

With a snap of his boots, he jumped out of the chair and pushed the map into his first mate's hands. "Ludwig, take this and start plotting our course. I'll be expecting it all charted out by the time the tide comes in, so you've got about an hour. Feliciano, you take the new munchkins down to the galley, they'll be reporting to our cook, Mr. Kirkland. And I," he saddled up to Elizaveta with the same smug look as before, ignoring the glares sent his way by both Roderich and Vash, "will show _Miss_ Elizaveta to her cabin. Have to make sure you're all settled in proper, eh, love? Come along, fellas, chop chop."

With that, he strode out the door with Elizaveta in arm, followed closely by Vash and a silently fuming Roderich. Ludwig slipped out a moment later, the map concealed under his coat, leaving the twins alone with a still-grinning Feliciano.

"They took the map," Alfred said dumbly.

Matthew shrugged. "For safekeeping, I guess."

"But it's _our_ map!"

"You don't have to worry!" Feliciano cut in with a silly sort of laugh. "Ludwig'll take good care of it, and he's the best navigator in the world!"

Alfred only scowled deeper at that, even as the cheerful crewman lead them from the captain's quarters. He muttered, low enough that only Matthew could hear: "Bet _Dad_ was better than him."

Matthew gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze.

"Ve, and I know Captain Gilbert can be a bit grumpy sometimes," Feliciano carried on, completely misinterpreting Alfred's dour mood. "But he'll lighten up once we get sailing. I can tell that he already kind of likes you! 'Sides, I'm sure you'll get along with Arthur, no problem. He's a nice guy."

"Who's Arthur?" Matthew asked, trying to be polite.

"Arthur Kirkland! He's our cook," Feliciano's grin widened as they headed down the stairs into the galley. "And since you two are going to be cabin boys, you'll be working for him first and foremost. He'll show you all the ropes, I'm sure. Ah, Arthur!"

From somewhere behind the crates of rations, a heavy pan clattered to the floor. Seconds later, a scraggily-looking blonde head with very distinctive eyebrows poked up over the top of the boxes.

"Ah, Feliciano," the man, who could only be Arthur Kirkland, deadpanned. "How _nice_ to see you here. Again."

Feliciano laughed as though it was a joke. The twins weren't sure about that. "I brought you something, Arthur!"

"So I heard. A couple of cabin boys, eh?" Kirkland's head disappeared as he came around the edge of the wall. Every other step thumped heavily against the floor with the odd sound of wood-on-wood. "Good to see. I can always use a helping hand around here, as I'm sure you know."

Finally, he came around where they could see him clearly. Matthew gasped and grabbed Alfred's hand. The elder twin tensed, his breath catching in his throat.

Arthur Kirkland had only one leg.

_**TBC…**_


	6. In Which the Voyage is Begun

**The Sea Cook; or Hetalia's Treasure Island**

**Chapter Six: In Which the Voyage is Begun**

Arthur Kirkland was not an old man, but he was not a young one either, and the prominence of his clearly-untrimmed eyebrows made him look older than he probably was. He had blonde hair, rougher, coarser and darker than the twins', sheered short and unruly. His face was twisted in a way that indicated a near-perpetual scowl, his green eyes as torrid and turbulent as the sea during a storm.

Under one arm, he leaned on a large, hand-carved wooden staff, dividing his weight evenly between it and his right leg. His left was missing everything below the knee.

There was no way to hide that he was a…if not _the_…one-legged man.

Feliciano had introduced them hurriedly and scurried back up to the deck to help Ludwig. That left the boys alone with Mister Kirkland in the gloomy galley that felt smaller and more confined with each passing moment. Matthew still clung to Alfred's arm, clutching it in place of the bear that was packed away. Alfred stood tense, trying his hardest to be heroic and strong, but his entire body buzzed with nervous energy. Arthur was gazing at them as though they had four heads and six arms between them.

"Oi," he said, "what the bloody hell are you two staring at?"

The twins gulped. They felt, without saying so, that the answer to that question ought to be fairly obvious.

Arthur quirked one of his exceptionally bushy eyebrows, following their gazes to the place his left leg should have been. "What, this? Ain't you ever seen a man with a disability before?"

Neither boy said anything, but they did back up a step as the man thumped towards them.

"Well, you better belt up and get used to it, 'cause we're going to be looking at each other an awful lot on this blasted trip," he stopped a few feet away, looking them up and down like a jeweler appraising his new assets. "Now, which one of you is which?"

Matthew gulped again and tried to answer, but his vocal cords felt paralyzed. Arthur jabbed a finger at him. "Alfred?"

The younger twin shook his head and squeaked, "Matthew."

"Damn. Never was good at guessing."

Arthur thumped a bit closer. Alfred twisted to the side, pressing Matthew back against the haul. Mindful of Antonio's last warning, they never turned their back on him.

"Well, I suppose the three of us are stuck together, at least for the time being," the cook sighed, heading for the stairs. He nodded to a door on the other side of the cabin. "Crew quarters are that way, and there's another ladder up on the other side. Get yourselves settled in. Once we set off, I'm putting you both to work, and count on it."

He climbed the stairs more easily than they really expected from a man with only one leg. He never even glanced back.

Once he was out of their sight, both of the twins deflated. Matthew sagged against Alfred's shoulder, weak from the adrenaline, as the older brother slumped against the wall. "Oh, man…Hey, Matt?"

"Yeah, Al?"

"I can't feel my fingers."

Matthew let go of his brother's hand, but curled around Alfred's arm barely a moment later. "Get used to it," he muttered, his eyes disappearing behind his bangs. "Oh god, Al, what are we going to do?"

"Do?"

"Alfred!" Matthew practically shrieked. "The one-legged man! Just like Antonio said! We have to do something!"

"I know, I know!" Alfred groaned, storming across the cabin and throwing his bag through the door to the crew's quarters. "But what can we do? You heard the captain, we've been assigned to him!"

"Well, we have to _tell_ somebody!" Matthew insisted, tossing his bag in as well. "Roderich or Miss Elizaveta or Captain Gilbert! If we tell someone before we set sail –"

"_All hands on deck!"_

Ludwig's voice boomed across the deck, followed closely by a sudden lurch that nearly knocked them off their feet. Alfred steadied them both against one of the crates, looking up at deck. "I think we're setting sail now."

Matthew looked about ready to cry.

They climbed the ladder and back onto the deck to find it even busier than before. The tide had come in, they were pushing away from the dock and the sails were being unfurled to catch the wind. All around them, sailors were in motion, working together to cast off.

The twins found themselves at a loss, not knowing what to do with themselves in the midst of it all. Alfred wiggled out of his brother's grasp and made his way to the edge. He leaned over the side and watched the ocean crash against the haul and ebb back into the horizon. For a moment, all of his worries were forgotten, and he was lost in his own excitement. This, he knew, was the start of the adventure he had always been meant to take.

Suddenly, someone bumped him from behind. His center of gravity slipped over the edge, and his stomach lurched. He was _falling_…

"Watch it, lad!"

Someone grabbed him by the belt and hauled him back. Alfred tumbled to the deck, landing on his hands and knees. "J-Jesus," he swore, taking a deep breath. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," said his rescuer gruffly. "Just be more careful."

Alfred's breath caught in his throat. He looked up to find that his helping hand was none other than Arthur Kirkland. The cook thumped his crutch against the ground and pulled the boy up by the arm. "I mean it, lad, watch where you step from here on out. Last thing we want is for you to wind up in the drink."

Alfred straightened uncertainly, watching Arthur like a hawk, but couldn't find anything suspicious in either his words or actions. "Y-Yes, sir. I will. Thank you."

"Like I said, don't mention it," Arthur shrugged, brushing him off. "And _you_," he clapped his free hand on the shoulder of the large man who had bumped Alfred, "be more careful where you walk next time, all right?"

"Ja, I shall," said the man with a friendly smile. He had a heavy accent and was wrapped in a heavier coat, a hulking form that probably would have been threatening were he not smiling so warmly. When he looked down, Alfred realized how pale he was and froze up again, remembering Antonio's words about Natalia's brother. "I apologize, friend. I do hope I have not caused you any trouble."

Arthur quirked a strange sort of grin, squeezing the giant's arm. "None at all, mate. None at all."

"You two!" Ludwig snapped, inadvertently coming to the still-nervous Alfred's rescue. "Kirkland, Bragnaski! Get back to work!"

With an enthusiastic, "Aye, aye, sir!" chorus, the two seamen obeyed. The first mate turned his attention to Alfred. "You too, cabin boy. Come make yourself useful."

"Yes, sir!" Alfred yelped, and jumped into action, completely forgetting that he was leaving his brother behind.

Matthew didn't mind too much, though. While Alfred was gallivanting around on the starboard side, he had made his way port to catch one last glimpse of land before they departed. The sailors took no note of him, and he took advantage of this continuous invisibility and made his way as close to the rear of the ship as he could. He stayed there until the port had disappeared from sight, biding Seychelles, Liechtenstein and their temporary London home a silent farewell.

He was so lost in his thoughts that, when he stepped away from the rail to head back to the galley, he accidentally ran head-long into another crewman. "I-I'm so sorry!"

Above him, the man laughed. "Worry not, mon cher, for no harm was done. My, but aren't you just a _mignon petits_?"

Matthew blinked. The man had spoken _French_. He was fluent in French, self-taught, as it was useful around the inn, but he hadn't heard the language in many years – not since the port dried up.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he said grandly, drawing a rose from heaven-only-knows-where and presenting it to Matthew. "Francis Bonnefoy, at your service. And you are?"

"…Matthew," the teen said slowly, taking the flower. "Matthew Williams-Jones."

He gave Francis a once-over. He looked up at the man curiously. He was tall and somewhat flashy, with an odd hair cut and a bit of a goatee. His clothes were strangely flashy and made it quite clear that he thought very highly of himself. He was smiling down at Matthew in a way that could only be described as flirtatious, even though he was a good decade older than the boy, at least.

"Hm? What is wrong, _mes ame_? You seem distracted," Francis's grin widened as he leaned forward and tapped Matthew on the nose. "You're not falling for me already, are you?"

Matthew turned crimson and very nearly dropped the flower. "O-Of course not!"

"I am only play with you, mes ame," Francis laughed, ruffling Matthew's hair again. "Now, you are a cabin boy, yes?"

"Yes."

"And a man of few words to boot," Francis said, nodding with approval. He put an arm around Matthew's shoulder and began to stroll down the side of the deck without a care in the world. "Now, let's see. I and a number of other crewmen report directly to first mate Ludwig, but where do you fit in?"

"I, uh," Matthew shifted uncomfortably under the weight of the attention. "My brother and I are under the, uh, cook. M-Mr. Kirkland…"

Something flashed across Francis's eye at that. Recognition? "Kirkland, you say?"

"Yes, sir," Matthew said slowly. "Do you know him?"

"I am not, 'sir.' Mon cher. We are friends, yes?" the older man chuckled. "Call me Francis. I believe you and I shall become very close friends indeed." He gave Matthew's shoulder a pleasant squeeze, ignoring the looks some of the crew was giving them as they passed by, not to mention Matthew's question. "Now, how about we get to know each other? I want to hear all about this lovely brother of yours…"

_**TBC…**_


	7. In Which Matthew is Rescued

**The Sea Cook; or Hetalia's Treasure Island**

**Chapter Seven: In Which Matthew is Rescued**

Captain Gilbert Weillschmidt knew his own reputation well. He was obnoxious, boisterous, belligerent, bad-tempered and a horrible conversationalist. He had never tried to deny any of that. But he was also a first-rate captain and, more than anything, he knew how to run a tight ship.

It was a little less than twelve hours into the voyage, and everything was peaceful. They had departed from London harbor with hardly a hitch, and a favorable wind had blown in before the first hour was up. Mr. Wong, one of the most experienced seamen in the crew, was at the helm; his younger brother Yong-Soo was on look-out in the crow's nest. A number of other sailors were scattered about the deck, tending to their various duties. The rest were down below, resting in their bunks. Gilbert surveyed it all from the upper deck, content that everything was in order for the moment, and was just beginning to entertain the idea of pestering their benefactor when a voice broke into his thoughts. "Afternoon, captain."

Gilbert glanced down to the lower deck. Arthur Kirkland was grinning up at him, leaning on his crutch. He was wearing a goofy grin, the kind worn by unsociable persons forcing interaction with another for their own purposes.

"Lovely day, isn't it sir?" the cook said with false brightness. "Looks like smooth sailing for a while. Excellent start to a voyage, if I do say so myself."

Gilbert sniffed at that, turning his eyes to the calm, rolling seas. "I suppose so."

"Of course, we can't expect that to last," Kirkland said, a bit more somber. "She's a harsh mistress, the ocean. Loves to crush a gent just when he thinks he knows her moods."

"Obviously," Gilbert said, rolling his eyes. "I'm not an idiot, Kirkland."

"Never said you were, sir," Arthur said, sounding more apologetic than he looked. "Just making some small talk, sir."

Gilbert rolled his eyes ,glancing back down the length of the ship. A flash of gold made him raise an eyebrow, and a grin spread across his face. "Say, Kirkland. Isn't that your cabin boy?"

Arthur whirled around. The golden-haired teen was jumping around the side of the deck, sweeping and stabbing with a piece of word as though it were a sword and he a warrior in the midst of battle. "Um, yes. Yes, I suppose it is."

"Looks like he's having fun," Gilbert continued with a taunting tone. "How nice for a young man to have so much free time. But I wonder, aren't you being a bit _lenient_ with him?"

"You don't have to worry about that," Arthur muttered, heading off after his wayward boy. "I'll go fix that little issue _right_ now."

Alfred didn't notice his superior coming. He wasn't noticing much of anything around him at the moment. He was lost in his own imagination, fighting off vicious pirates and practicing the maneuvers his father taught him as a child. He was just finishing the half-twist on the end of his own signature flourish when he ran head-long into Arthur.

The cook caught himself of the side of the ship and shot the boy a glare. "I _thought _I told you to be more careful, boy!"

Alfred jumped back, dropping his 'sword.' Arthur didn't give him a chance to apologize, even if he was going to, continuing with a snap. "And just what do you think you're doing here anyway? I gave you a job!"

"No you didn't!" Alfred retorted. "I haven't gotten orders from anybody but Ludwig yet!"

Arthur turned red in anger. "I ordered you to swab the deck an hour ago, boy!"

"That _wasn't_ me!" Alfred insisted. "That was Matthew! Look!"

He jabbed a finger at the stern of the ship, where his flaxen-haired twin was indeed cleaning the deck quite dutifully with a mop and bucket. Arthur's colors receded into an embarrassed flush, and he cleared his throat. "Ah, now I see. I suppose that makes sense."

"Jeez, old man, I've never met _anybody_ who had such a hard time keeping us straight," Alfred retorted, crossing his arms over his chest. "You must be really dumb."

"What was that?!"

Arthur seized the boy by his ear, yanking him towards the galley door with surprising ferocity. Alfred yelped grabbing at the man's wrist in an attempt to relieve the pressure.

"You're a cheeky little sot, aren't you?" the cook scowled, hobbling for the stairs. Despite the fact that he was still wobbling on his crutch, he was remarkably steady and strong enough to keep a good hold on the boy. "As long as your brother is taking care of things up here, I think you and I should get a head start on dinner, don't you? Let's start with the potatoes."

Alfred's protests and whines echoed up from the galley for another two minutes. The sound carried over to Matthew, who smiled to himself. His brother was a hard worker when he put his mind to it, but he would whine and complain the whole way.

Still, Matthew thought as he dipped his mop into the bucket again, he wasn't sure he liked leaving Alfred along with Arthur. Matthew knew better than anyone how well Al could take care of himself, but Antonio had _warned_ them.

Then again, even though Arthur wasn't really the friendly sort, he'd been much more so than the rest of the crew.

Matthew glanced up though his bangs, nervously eyeing the little cache of sailors perched on the grog barrels against the wall. They were off-duty, laughing, relaxing and sharing their big fish tales, like any other seamen on any other ship in the world. Something about them, though, but him on edge.

"Oi," one of them suddenly called. "What'cha looking at, cabin boy?"

Matthew squeaked and dropped his head down. He tried to focus on his chore, but the sailor had other plans. He stood, stomped over to Matthew and seized his chin, pushing his head back to look him in the eye.

"More a mouse than a man, eh, mate?" he snickered. He was a rough-looking blonde with a bandage strapped across the bridge of his nose. "Come on, speak up, boy. Just what was so interesting about us? Or were you just captivated by my pretty face?"

"Sod off, Aussie!" called one of the others, a devilishly good-looking man with spiked hair and a wild grin. "Even a squid would run from your ugly mug."

The other two sailors laughed at that. Matthew tried to wiggle away, but 'Aussie' kept a tight grip on him, squeezing his jaw.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh all you like Denmark, you git," he sniggered. "But I think you'll agree with me that a cabin boy should learn to mind his own business."

"Aye," said Denmark, ignoring the reproachful glare the almost white-haired man beside him was shooting. He hopped to his feet and sauntered over to Matthew, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. "It can be dangerous, you know. Wouldn't want you getting hurt poking about where you don't belong."

Matthew gripped the mop handle so tightly he thought it might snap. When he tried to back away, the two sailors followed, kicking over his bucket as they went. They grinned like a pair of sharks circling a wounded swimmer.

"What's the matter, little mouse? Gonna jump overboard and abandon this doomed vessel?"

"Maybe we ought to help him with that…"

"That's quite enough."

Matthew gasped. Francis appeared behind the two sailors, grabbing them each by the shoulder and shoving them away. Denmark and Aussie glared at him, and he matched them inch for inch.

"Harass _mon petite _like that again, and there will be hell to pay, I promise you," he said, his voice sharp as a guillotine blade. "Now get back to your stations, both of you."

The two scowled at him but, at the silent demands of their comrades, conceded and stalked back to their positions.

Francis's gaze softened as it turned to Matthew. "Are you all right?"

"Yes!" Matthew gasped, cleared his throat and continued more quietly. "Y-Yes, yes. I'm fine. Th-Thank you."

Francis smiled as though to say, "think nothing of it." He gently pulled the mop out of Matthew's hands and set it to the side. "I believe that the deck is properly clean now, yes? Come with me."

With a hand on Matthew's back, he lead the teen away from the still-glaring sailors. Matthew could feel their disgust burning into the back of his head and shivered under its intensity.

"You must take care, Mathieu," Francis said to him, dropping his voice to a whisper. "I have sailed with a number of these men before. When they become restless, which they often do, they will turn to tormenting those they can for sport. Your innocence makes you a tempting target for them. So stay on your guard."

Matthew looked up at the older man with a mixture of curiosity and wonder. "You _know_ them?"

"Or have known at one time, yes."

"Did you…did you sign on with them?

"Not this time," Francis said with a kind smile. "I was something of a last-minute addition to this journey. Gilbert asked me to come along because he knew he could trust me."

"You know the captain, too?"

"There are very few sailors that I don't know, _mon petite. _Ah, here we are."

Francis lead Matthew down the stairs to the galley. When they were about half-way, a voice floated from the back of the cabin – Arthur's.

"No remember, you don't peal towards you. Aim the blade…"

"_Away_. I know, I know, sheesh!" Alfred exclaimed from where he say, surrounded by burlap sacks and half-peeled potatoes. "It's not like I haven't done this before, old man! Potato soup was one of the inn's specialties!"

Now that his brother was once more within shouting distance, Matthew let his composure fall apart. He broke away from Francis and leapt over the potato sacks. "Alfred!"

"Mattie?" Alfred dropped the peeler just before his brother hit him. The younger twin clung, hiding his face in the other's shirt. "Mattie, what's wrong?"

"Nothing to be too concerned over," Francis assured with a smile. "He's not hurt, don't worry. We just had a bit of an incident with some of the crew upstairs."

Arthur's eyebrows, which had been knotted together in concern for the younger twin, shot to his hairline and his peeler fell to the floor. Alfred and Matthew glanced between the two adults, confused. Francis was the only one who seemed calm.

"Monsieur Kirkland," he said smoothly.

"…Bonnefoy," Kirkland sniffed, picking up his tool. He slammed it down on top of a crate and hauled himself to his feet. Foot.

Francis watched him with a certain amount of amusement, which Arthur took steps to ignore. He cleared his throat for the boys' attention, barely sparing the twins a glance. "You two finish this up, would you? Mister Bonnefoy and I need to share a word."

The Frenchman bowed dramatically, motioning to the door with his arm. "After you, Monsieur."

Arthur sniffed and headed up the stairs without another word. Francis blew a kiss to the boys and followed after.

Alfred quirked an eyebrow at his brother the moment the adults were gone. "Who's the Frenchy Frenchdude?"

Matthew giggled and picked up Arthur's abandoned potato peeler. "I'll explain later. C'mon, let's get this over with already."

**( - )**

Arthur hobble up the steps and winced as his knee stiffened up in the last two hopes. He leaned against the mast, reaching down to rub the aching joint.

"I see that old injury still give you trouble, my friend," Francis said, his voice oddly kind.

Arthur gave a rueful snort. "There will be fog tonight, just you wait."

"As you say."

Arthur groaned, leaning back against the rough wood, and narrowed his eyes at his fellow seaman. "So what do you want, Bonnefoy?"

Francis tapped his nose with a hum. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean. You called me up here, after all."

"I'm asking you what you want to keep quiet," Arthur stressed. "About…us."

"Your past, you mean. Or rather, our collective past. Ours – the entire crew."

"All but you," Arthur sniffed. "You didn't sign on with us."

"'Tis true," Francis sighed. "But I did sail with you once. It has been a long time."

"Yes. A very long time."

The two men were quiet for a moment, reminiscing on a past they shared. The atmosphere between them was thick with tension.

Finally, Francis sighed. "I choose to give you the benefit of the doubt."

Arthur scowled. "Just what does that mean?"

"I will say nothing to the captain or the benefactor about the past that we have shared, if you will give me the same courtesy." Francis ran a hand dramatically through his hair and grinned. "After all, we both have done things that we are not proud of, but we have moved beyond them. I have done much in the past seven years to reinvent myself as an honest man. It is the same for you, I trust?"

Arthur shifted, tapping his crutch against the deck. "Ah…yes, yes. I suppose that is true."

"Then there shouldn't be a problem," Francis said, but his smile quickly faded into a serious glare. "But I warn you, Arthur. I will no be a part of any illegal goings-on. That is not a part of my life anymore. I am an honest man."

"As am I," Arthur said, but his voice was low and uncertain.

"A-hem."

The two looked up. First mate Ludwig came up the side of the deck with the ever-excited Feliciano in tow. He glanced between them the two seriously, his face the penicale of discipline. "Something wrong, gentlemen?"

"No sir," Arthur sighed, pushing back to move across the deck.

"_Oui,_" Francis nodded. "We were simply reconnecting with old friends."

"Ve, that sounds nice!"

Arthur grunted noncommittally, hobbling back down the galley steps. His knee was still aching, and the journey was going to feel muc, much longer with this new development. He could just tell, and he wasn't looking forward to it in the least.

_**TBC…**_


	8. In Which There is a Brawl

**The Sea Cook; or Hetalia's Treasure Island**

**Chapter Eight: In Which There is a Brawl**

It was foggy that night, just as Arthur had predicted.

The foghorn echoed through the night, warning away any ship that might accidentally cross their path. The for hung low over the water's surface, thick as a blanket and squirming like a living creature.

Elizaveta was captivated by it, walking along their upper deck and gazing down at the sea in fascination. Vash hovered a few steps behind her, a hand on his gun, warding away any of the insomniac sailors who ventured too close. The lady paid her escort no mind, somewhat tickled by his overprotective nature.

"Good evening, ma'am."

Vash cocked his gen, planting the barrel quite firmly between the eyes of Mr. Arthur Kirkland. The cook made an uncertain noise in the back of his throat, raising his hands awkwardly at the elbows.

"Stand down, Vash," Elizaveta sighed, pushing the bodyguard's gun back down to point at the floor. She cleared he throat and brushed a bit of hair out of her eyes to address Arthur. "Mr. Kirkland, was it?"

"Aye, miss," Arthur sighed, relaxing now that he wasn't being held at gunpoint. "And I'm flattered you'd remember. I'm just a humble cook, after all."

Elizaveta made a non-commital noise, biting down her complaints about his rather poor excuse for an evening meal. The only thing that had even been remotely edible was the boiled potatoes, which everyone knew to be Alfred and Matthew's work. Still, as poor a chef as the man might be, he was still a good man and deserved her respect. Elizaveta had never really understood the tendency of certain upper-class families to regard their hired help as something beneath them. Luckily, Roderich had never held such to such old-fashioned ways – he may have been a bit scatterbrained and difficult to communicate with when he wasn't speaking through his music, but at least he always remember his assistants' names.

As though following her train of thought, Arthur prompted, "You husband is below, I take it?"

"In our cabin, yes," Elizaveta said with a nod. "Speaking with Mister Ludwig, I believe."

"Ah. And you came up here to escape the drudgery of business talk."

"I am more than capable of handling business, sir," Elizaveta said with a smirk. "More than you could know. However, they were discussing military strategy – a passion that they share, but I do not."

"I see," Arthur chuckled. He leaned back against the side of the ship, supporting himself with his arms easily. "Then the young master is lucky he belongs to such a dutiful mistress as yourself."

Elizaveta laughed behind her hand. Vash smirked silently in amused agreement.

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. "And those boys, the, eh, Williams-Jones twins – I suppose they belong to you as well?"

"Oh, heavens no," Elizaveta said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "They're the wards of a dear friend. She stayed behind in London, to recover what she'd lost just before this journey began."

Arthur raised a curious eyebrow at that. The action seemed more impressive for him than most people. "SO, they've got a mother waiting for them at home…"

"Not a _mother_, per say," Elizaveta said slowly, as though uncertain how much was hers to tell. "They're all a bit resolute about that, you see. It seems a bit odd to me, really. Seychelles may not have given birth to them, but she is still their guardian – their family."

Arthur frowned. "What happened to their real mother, then?"

"I'm afraid I don't know. I don't think any of the three ever knew her. As I understand it, their father was Seychelles's close friend, and she cared for the boys when he went to sea. After he died out there, she took them in permanently."

"I see," Arthur said slowly, his expression pensive and thoughtful. Lost in his own thoughts, it quickly became clear that the conversation was at an end. At the very least, he was polite enough to excuse himself properly, pushing away from the wall and bowing to Elizaveta. "I believe I will turn in now. Good evening, madam."

"Good evening to you, Mister Kirkland," Elizaveta nodded, and turned back to the sea as the cook hobbled away. Vash watched the man until he had disappeared into the hull, never taking his hand off of his gun.

Elizaveta smiled to herself and the rolling sea. "What an odd little man he is."

**( - )**

Arthur hobbled down the steps as quietly as he could, entering through the galley. He had the skill and the practice to enter the crew's quarters via the ladder, if he wished, but that would be a noisy entrance and he didn't particularly want to deal with his ill-tempered crew at this late hour.

The sleeping quarters were spacious, as cabins went, but it certainly didn't seem that way when filled by the majority of the crew. Hammocks had been strung up across every available inch of space, and the entire floor was occupied by cots and mattresses of all dimensions, the space between them filled in with bags and personal effects.

Arthur glanced between them with a light scowl on his face. They were a mangy lot of sea-dogs, he'd be the first to admit it, and there wasn't a single soul amongst them that hadn't been blackened like a coal miner's white shirt.

At least…not among the ones _he_ had brought aboard.

Sea-green eyes trailed to the far corner of the room, where the two golden-haired cabin boys lay together. Matthew had his back to the wall, curled innocently around the white teddy bear he had dragged all this way. Alfred lay facing him, guarding his brother from the rest of the crew with his own body. For once, they seemed completely at peace, snuggled together beneath the rough, homespun cloth, like cherubs nestled on a cloud.

Arthur found himself standing beside them before he knew it, and scowled at the sickening poetic route his thoughts had taken along the way. Heaving a sigh, he tugged the blanket up and over the boys' shoulders, using one hand to tuck it under their chins. His fingers brushed Alfred's cheek, and the older twin squirmed a bit in his sleep. Arthur froze, but was not caught – Alfred did not wake.

Silently cursing himself for his sentimentality, Arthur Kirkland hobbled to his bunk and dropped into an oblivion of his own.

**( - )**

A clear afternoon three days later found Alfred swabbing the deck. Matthew, still rattled by his pervious encounter, flatly refused to take the chore again. He was below deck with Francis, cleaning and securing the canons.

Needless to say, Alfred was bored out of his wits.

The water sloshed over the deck with the same rhythm as the rocking boat. Alfred heaved a sigh, swirling the mob through the suds, and hummed an old work tune under his breath. "Mother, don't wake me, don't jostle or shake me. I spent my night drinking with the ladies by the shore…"

"Good work, Jones," said Ludwig, patting the boy on the shoulder as he passed by.

Alfred made a face at his back. "_Williams_-Jones," he corrected.

Feliciano giggled as though the cabin boy had made a joke, skipping after Ludwig and chattering on about pasta and the hope that dinner would be edible that night. A group of three sailors recently off-duty pushed past them coming the other way, pausing a moment to salute the first mate haphazardly. They were laughing heartily and stumbling over the deck as though their sea-legs had suddenly been lost. If it weren't for the fact that Ludwig kept a close watch on the limited liquor supply and strictly forbade drinking as long as the sun was up, Alfred might have thought that they were drunk.

"Well, well, well," the spiky-haired gunner, whose nickname among the rest of the crew was Denmark, snickered when he caught sight out Alfred. "Lookie here, Aussie. Our little mouse is out of his hole again."

"Who're you calling a mouse, dog-breath?" Alfred retorted before it occurred to him that it might not be a good idea.

The three sailors stopped laughing. 'Aussie' glanced at their third, the ever-enthusiastic Yong-Soo, and raised an eyebrow of confusion. Denmark looked to both of them, then addressed Alfred again. "What did you just call me?"

"You heard me," Alfred retorted, sloshing the mop across the deck. "What's the matter, your ears as bad as your face looks?"

Yong-Soo and Aussie chuckled a bit at that. Denmark bristled. "You're not the cabin boy from before, are you?"

"Brilliant," Alfred deadpanned. "And you geniuses must be the jerks who were messing with my brother."

"Brother, huh?" said Yong-Soo, and let out a high-pitched laugh. "Whattya know, we got a whole family of mice on board!"

"This mouse has a mouth, mate," Aussie muttered, looking annoyed.

Alfred smirked. Denmark's eye twitched in annoyance. "Better watch yourself, lad."

"You're the one who started the fight, dog-breath," the cabin boy retorted. "Don't get mad at me just 'cause you can't keep up."

"Arrogant little brat," Aussie said, popping his knuckles.

"You're really pushing it, kid," Denmark snarled, looming over him.

He snorted like an angry bull, and Alfred reared back, wrinkling his nose. "Woah! Jeez, when I called you dog-breath, I really didn't think it was _literal!_"

"You little _brat_!"

Before Alfred could react, Denmark had grabbed him by the collar, slammed him against the mast and punched him in the face.

Alfred yelped in protest and kicked his attacker in the knee. Denmark shouted, dropped him and got a mop pole to the stomach for his trouble. Alfred tried to break away, but Aussie and Yong-Soo grabbed him by the arms. "Not so fast, mouse!"

"Yeah!" Yong-Soo chimed. "You can't slip away from us!"

"Little bastard," Denmark scowled, coughing as he finally got his breath into his lungs. Alfred froze up at the insult, but the angered Dane took no notice. "I'm gonna wring your fucking neck!"

Before he could fulfill his threat, a wooden crutch caught him directly in the chest. Arthur Kirkland glared at him savagely.

"I think," the cook said slowly, "that you all need to calm down."

"Gentlemen!"

The combatants broke apart, dumping Alfred on the ground, as Ludwig came storming back. Feliciano and Roderich were in tow, with Captain Gilbert drawn in by the ruckus. In the shadow of the mast lurked Ivan Braginski, the largest man in the crew, who was smiling as though he'd just watched a wonderful show.

The first mate glared at the crowd before turning on the combatants sternly. "What, exactly, is the meaning of this?"

"Nothing sir," Yong-Soo muttered, not meeting his eye.

"Yeah, just playing with the kid," Aussie chimed in, doing the same.

Ludwig regarded Alfred and his quickly-forming new shiner with the same expression others might use to examine a bug in the bed. He turned his gaze to the adults just as sourly. "There will be _no_ brawling on this ship."

"At the very least, no brawling that doesn't involve the awesome me," Gilbert chimed in with a smirk.

Ludwig shot his brother an annoyed glare before turning to the crew again. "Anyone caught fighting on-deck again will be confined to the brig for the rest of the voyage. Is that clear?"

"Yes sir," the crewmen chorused, spiritlessly.

Ludwig glared at Alfred, who had not responded with the others. "Is that _clear,_ Mr. Jones?"

"_Williams_-Jones."

"What was that?"

Alfred glared at the first mate through his swollen eye. "I said, 'Yes sir.'"

"Good," Ludwig sniffed as the little crowd dispersed. "Carry on."

Alfred scowled, exchanging one last glare with Denmark before shuffling to retrieve his mop. Before he could, a hand landed on his shoulder.

"I think, Mr. _Williams_-Jones," said Arthur Kirkland, "that you and I need to have a little talk."

_**TBC…**_


	9. In Which a Connection is Forged

(I apologize for taking so long, this chapter's been done for ages. I just got distracted by school)

**The Sea Cook; or Hetalia's Treasure Island**

**Chapter Nine: In Which a Connection is Forged**

In the galley, Arthur sat Alfred down on a bench and dug through an ice-packed chest for a moment before depositing a slice of raw beef onto the table before him. "Here."

Alfred made a face. "What's this for?"

"Your eye," Arthur said, sitting across from him and picking up a block of wood. "Old remedy. It'll bring down the swelling."

"That's stupid."

"You think so?" Arthur snickered. "Well, there is another method."

"And what does it involve, eggs?"

"No. This." Arthur drew a switch blade from his belt. "Option two is, we cut it open with this and let all the pus drain into a basin."

The color drained from Alfred's face. "That's disgusting!"

"Makes the steak look pretty good, eh?" Arthur said with a smirk. "Put it on."

Alfred scowled a bit deeper, but lifted the meat to his eye. Arthur chuckled, using his knife to whittle the wood in his hand. There was a long moment of silence between them, growing more anxious and tense with each passing second.

Finally, Arthur broke it. "You need to learn to pick your fights better, boy."

"Look, that wasn't my fault –!"

"I don't _care _if it was your fault!" Arthur snapped. "You need to learn when it's time to walk away."

Alfred snorted. "Somehow, I don't think you're one to lecture me about that kind of thing."

Arthur twitched. "And just what is that supposed to mean?"

"You didn't lose that leg in the wash."

Quick as a wink, Arthur slammed the switchblade into the table, inches from Alfred's fingers. The teen yelped and scrambled back, nearly fall off the bench. Arthur's green eyes were as savage as the fiercest storm, glaring at Alfred with a snarl.

"Listen here, _boy_," he hissed. "Don't go running your mouth about things you don't understand. You have no right to judge what I've done to survive in this world."

Alfred gulped. "S-Sorry."

Arthur sniffed, yanking the knife out with a forceful jerk, and went back to his whittling. Alfred shifted nervously over his eyes, his hand clamped over the slice of meat and his bruised eye. The beef was starting to absorb his body heat.

After another awkward silence, Arthur sighed. "At the very least, he said, his voice softer and more sensitive than before, "your intentions were good. Standing up for Matthew's sake, I mean."

Alfred shrugged, shifting the steak around to press a cooler patch against his raw and bruised skin. "Mattie's my brother. I have to stand up for him. It's my job."

"I suppose that's something your father told you."

Alfred tensed at the mention of his father. Arthur remained calm, letting the coils of wood fall to the floor. Alfred's shoulders gave out, and he relaxed with a sigh.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Yeah, he did. Dad always used to tell us to take care of each other. It was always the last thing he said just before he left."

"Before he went to sea, you mean."

"Yeah," Alfred narrowed his eyes at the man suspiciously. "How did you know that?"

"Word of mouth, dear boy," Arthur said, turning the block of wood over in his hands to judge the placement of his next cute. "Which of your names belonged to your father?"

"Huh?"

"Williams-Jones. Which one was your father, Williams or Jones?"

Alfred frowned a moment, putting the steak down on the table. "Williams."

Arthur stopped whittling in mid-stroke, a bit of recognition flickering across his face. "Emmerich Williams?"

"Okay, that's just creepy," Alfred insisted, shoving away from the table. "There's no way you learned my father's name through 'word of mouth,' not on this ship!"

"No. No indeed."

Arthur stared at the wood as though whatever small inspiration he had held for it had slipped away. He sighed, setting the half-carved block aside, and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Truth be told, lad, I knew your father," he said slowly. "I sailed with him once. Long ago."

Alfred's eyes widened in spite of the swollen bruise. "You…You knew Dad?"

"Aye," Arthur smiled roguishly, ruffling a hand through the back of his hair. "Best navigator I ever knew…"

**( - )**

"…Dad used to be famous for his navigating skills," Matthew babbled as he knotted the lines where Francis indicated. "Miss Seychelles said that everybody in the navy knew how good he was, that he was a natural. Even on a starless night and without a compass, Dad always knew exactly where he was. As long as he was at sea, he was never lost."

"Quite a remarkable talent indeed," Francis agreed, smiling. He looped the rope once more around the canon, then pulled it through the securing ring attached to the side of the ship. "It sounds as though your father was quite the accomplished man."

"He was!" Matthew said, beaming. There was something about Francis that really let him open up, more so than he ever had at home. He'd only known the man for a few days, but already he wanted to share everything with him. Out of everyone in the crew – everyone but Alfred and Miss Elizaveta – he was the only one that Matthew knew he could trust.

The Frenchman chuckled, tugging on the rope to check the tension. "And I suppose he must have imparted some of his great knowledge onto you and your brother, no?"

"Well, he tried," Matthew said, fumbling with the ropes. "We were kind of little. But whenever he came home, he'd always have some kind of lesion – how to draw a map, or use a sword, or what the constellations are called. He knew all the stories behind them, too. Papa always told the best stories."

The teen was quiet for a moment, lost in his thoughts and letting his hands move on autopilot. Francis let him think, keeping the silence until Matthew finally broke it. "You know…I was always better with a sword than Al."

"Oh?" Francis laughed again. "I suppose that made your big brother quite upset."

"A little bit. I mean, Al's way stronger than me, but I was always faster. Dad used to say that's why I always beat him." He dropped his voice down and leaned close to Fancis, as though he were imparting a great secret. "But Al's always been better at navigating than me. _Always_."

Francis blinked, taken a back. "You don't say? He doesn't seem like the type."

"He's not, and he knows that," Matthew insisted, violet eyes sparkling with pride. "So he works harder at it. Back home, he had a whole closet full of maps and charts that he drew all by himself, and he used to make a game out of predicting where the ships were coming from based on the wind and their riggings. He was always right too!"

Matthew shifted a bit and smiled at the knot in his hands. The smile was not meant for that knot, but its true recipient would never have accepted it, so he kept it as it was.

"My sense of direction's better, but Al wants it more. He's going to be just like Dad someday, I just know it. It's the only thing he's ever really wanted. And it's gonna be awesome when he makes it."

"As I'm sure he will." Francis ruffled the teen's hair. "With your support, of course."

Matthew shook his head. "I don't do anything."

"_Au contraire,"_ Francis said. "I believe your presence is far more important to Alfred than even he realizes."

Matthew blushed at that, wiggling out from under the Frenchman's hand. Francis stood, brushing the dirt from his knees. "Now tell me, mon petite…"

**( - )**

"…do you know what happened to him, in the end?"

Alfred's expression, which had been growing brighter and more excited as Arthur spoke of his father, faltered. He let his eyes drop to the table, avoiding the cook's sea green gaze, and shrugged.

"He died," he said quietly. "Isn't that what always happens?"

Arthur hummed noncommittally at that, drawing a bottle from the folds of his coat and taking a long draft. "Did they tell you how?"

"Fighting pirates," Alfred said, clenching his hands into fists over the top of the table. "They attacked the ship he was on. The crew managed to fight them off, but Dad…he went overboard in the struggle. They brought us his stuff back, but he…"

"Washed away, eh?" Arthur said, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry to hear that, lad. Truly I am. He was a good man."

"Yeah. He really was."

Arthur glanced at the boy, whose expression had become almost uncharacteristically tender. "How old were you? When he died."

"Eight."

"So then, four years…"

"_Six._"

"Right," the cook said, distracted. He stood and wandered around the table to reach his cutlery. Alfred hopped to his feet in a slight panic – Arthur's cooking had nearly poisoned them all the first night aboard, if he and Mattie didn't sneak in some edible adjustments, the whole crew was done for – but before he could make a move, a hand descended on him once more, coming to rest on the crown of his head.

Arthur heaved a last heavy sigh and smiled down at Alfred. "You're a good boy, lad."

Alfred blinked from under his hand and turned slightly red. "Th-Thanks."

Arthur mussed his hair and hobbled into the back of the galley. Alfred remained behind a moment, stunned by the odd turn their conversation had taken. The rustling of pots and pans brought him back to his senses, and he ran into the kitchen on Arthur's heels.

_**TBC…**_

**Note: **"Emmerich" is the original Germanic form of the Italian "Amerigo" – as in, Amerigo Vespucci, the Italian explorer who gave the American continents their name. I went with the German because it sounded better with Williams.


	10. In Which a Storm Brews

**The Sea Cook; or Hetalia's Treasure Island**

**Chapter Ten: In Which a Storm Brews**

The following weeks of the voyage passed by in a blur. Alfred and Matthew were kept so busy that they barely had time to speak to each other – from the moment they woke to the moment they collapsed into their shared bunk, they were constantly on the move.

Arthur seemed to have taken it upon himself to groom Alfred into a proper sailor. He was always keeping an eye on the elder twin, subtly maneuvering him out of trouble and instructing him in the finer points of everything from the knot tying to cordial conversation. To his credit, Alfred listened to the man – at least, when he wasn't going behind his back in an attempt to make the food edible – and learned quickly, soon surpassing his tutor's expectations. Arthur practically glowed with delight.

While Alfred was 'keeping an eye on' Arthur, Francis took over his role as Matthew's protector. The younger twin would protest that label, of course, and insist that he could take care of himself. It was true, but Francis kept an eye out for him anyway, out of a sense of affection. Said affection was readily returned, as Matthew found he quite enjoyed the man's presence and, especially, his seemingly endless stories of the sea.

The ship's other inhabitants went about their business as usual. Ludwig kept a tight ship, carrying out the guidelines that his captain-brother had set. Feliciano spent half of his time as Ludwig's loyal assistant and the other half facilitating Alfred and Matthew's 'sabotage' of Arthur's cooking. Meanwhile, Captain Gilbert kept up his usual routine of being awesome, by showing off his swashbuckling skills at every opportunity and gradually making more and more overt passes at Elizaveta. Roderich continued to sulk over that and spent long hours with his melodeon, either in his cabin or on deck, depending on the weather. His wife, more often than not, remained by his side. Vash watched over them both like a hawk.

Everything seemed to fall into a routine, but that did not mean that things were peaceful. The crew remained as ill-tempered as ever and, though all-out brawls were forbidden, there was still conflict.

"Mr. Braganski!"

The large Russian man turned at the first mate's order with an amiable smile on his face. The crew around him scattered, pressing against the sides of the ship. Ivan Braganski had not been aggressive or violent at all throughout the voyage – indeed, he had barely done anything but stand by and observe. Yet, everyone on board was instinctively afraid of him.

Everyone, that is, except first mate Ludwig.

He approached the Russian without a hint of trepidation, looking him straight in the eye, and said, "You've been in the liquor cabinet again, haven't you?"

"I'm afraid that I do not know what you mean, sir," Ivan said, his smile never slipping from his face.

Ludwig lifted a vodka bottle to the tall man's height, turning it upside down over his shoulder. A single drop fell from it, staining Ivan's pale coat. "Vodka is your drink of choice, is it not?"

"Da."

"This bottle was full at inventory last night. And I have a witness who places you in the area of the liquor store just before this was found."

"Ah yes," Ivan's violet eyes swerved around to catch Feliciano's gaze. "Your little assistant, da?"

Feliciano, though genuinely clueless, was not an idiot. He ducked behind Ludwig, out of the Russian's line of sight, and sputtered, "Buh-but you _were_ standing there! Ludwig, he was standing there for _hours_. I didn't actually see him take anything though…"

"Which is why I'm only issuing a warning this time," Ludwig said coldly, tossing the empty bottle overboard. "I'm keeping an eye on you, Braginski. Put a toe out of line and the gunner's daughter will have a new playmate, and God help you if I ever get wind that you've been intoxicated on duty. Do I make myself clear?"

"Absolutely," Ivan chirped. The sailors behind him shivered as though hit by a cold wind.

"Good. Dismissed."

Ludwig turned on his heel and marched away. Feliciano scurried after him, avoiding Ivan's gaze. The Russian hummed to himself and turned back to his work as though nothing had happened.

Gilbert, who had been watching his brother's show from half-way up the mast, released his hand holds for a brief second to clap his palms together. "All right, bastards, you heard the man! Back to work, every damn one of you!"

The crew did so, all giving Ivan Braginski a large berth. The atmosphere was considerably more tense than before. From below, Roderich's melodeon started up again, but the notes sank in the heavy tension like the empty bottle into the sea.

Alfred peered at Ivan over the wooden crate he and Arthur had been digging into when the argument began. "Woah," he said. "That was intense."

"Indeed," Arthur said, the frown on his face bleeding into his tone. His eyes were narrowed at Ivan with all the intensity of a hawk watching its territory. He pulled a sack of flour out of the box and pushed it into Alfred's grip. "Why don't you take this downstairs and get started? I'll be along in a bit."

Alfred blinked, shrugged and hoisted the bag into his arms. "Sure."

"That's a good lad," Arthur said with a smile. He pat the boy on the head and hobbled away.

Matthew watched his brother disappear into the galley, shuffling the heavy coil of rope around in his arms. He didn't like that Alfred was getting so close to the so-called cook. His brother hadn't even argued when he'd been ordered around! It made Matthew nervous. Didn't Alfred remember what Antonio had told them, about the one-legged man? They had to be careful…

He was startled from his thoughts by Francis, who took the rope coil out of Matthew's arms and slung it over his own shoulder. "Would you like to go after him?"

Matthew jerked back in surprise, barely able to remember the words he needed to respond. "I…I can't. I don't want to…"

"It's quite all right," Francis assured, patting the teen's head with a wide grin. "I can easily handle this on my own. Besides…" he looked up at the stormy grey sky, taking a deep breath of air thick with the smell of fresh water. "The riggings are no place for a boy your age. Not in this weather."

He was quiet a moment, staring pensively into the sky. Matthew followed his line of sight, but saw nothing. Finally, Francis sighed, lowered his eye to the deck and pushed Matthew helpfully toward the galley door. "Go on then, below with you. Shoo, shoo."

"If you say so," Matthew said, and headed below. Francis waved him off with a smile right up until he was finally out of sight.

**( - )**

In the galley below, Alfred dropped the heavy bag of flour onto the counter and heaved a sigh. He drew a switchblade from his pocket and sliced the bag open with one swift, precise cut.

"Where did you get that?"

Alfred lifted his head and grinned when he spotted his brother at the bottom of the stairs. "Hey Mattie! What's up?"

"Where did you get that knife?" Matthew repeated his question, drawing closer intently. It wasn't an impressive blade, as it was small and chipped and the spring looked ready to rust out, but… "I've never seen it before."

"Ah, this?" Alfred grinned ,flicking the knife in and out twice before he finally slipped it away. "Arthur gave it to me."

"Kirkland?"

"You know any other Arthurs on this ship?"

Matthew frowned at that, a scowl etching its way onto his features. "He gave it to you?"

"Well, yeah!"

"And you accepted?"

Now it was Alfred's turn to frown, though he at least had the sense to look a little ashamed. "Yeah, why?"

"Alfred!"

"It's not like he meant anything by it!" Alfred insisted, though his tone made it clear that it meant something to him. "He said it was important for a sailor to have a knife, that they're useful."

Matthew moved around the galley table and grasped his brother's hand with both of his own. "Al, I'm worried about you. I think you've been spending way too much time with Kirkland. It could be dangerous."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Alfred demanded, yanking his hand away.

"Don't you remember what Antonio said?"

"_Beware the one-legged man!"_

The last line was a chorus, and the twins shivered at the familiar chill that accompanied their rare bouts of unity. A large wave rolled up under the _Hetalia_, rocking the ship from side to side. The galley tolled, but the twins stood still.

"Antonio never told us anything else about the guy, just that he had one leg," Alfred reasoned, his voice strangely cold. "It could be anybody. Lots of old sailors are missing limbs and stuff. I just don't think Arthur's the one he was talking about."

Matthew worried his lip. "How can you be sure?"

"It's just a feeling. A good one," Alfred said, fingering the wooden handle of his switchblade affectionately. "He's…nice. And smart. And he knew Dad."

Matthew sighed, looking at his feet as the boot rolled beneath him again. "I jut don't want to see you get hurt."

"Don't worry. That's definitely not going to happen."

Matthew looked his brother in the eye. Alfred's gaze was distant, but bursting with confidence. Once again, the younger twin sighed and forced a smile onto his face. "If you say so, Al. I hope you're right."

"Of course I'm right!" Alfred said brightly, grinning and thumbing his nose. "You don't have to worry about me, Matt. I'll be okay. I'm a hero, after all."

A crash burst above their heads, echoing through the wooden haul like the inside of a drum, and the entire ship jerked suddenly to the side. Matthew and Alfred grabbed onto the boxes to steady themselves, scattering flour in all directions.

"Holy –!" Alfred yelped. "What the hell was that?"

"Boys!"

The trapdoor at the far end of the servant's quarters burst open, ushering in a shower of rain. Arthur leapt down, using the latter to slow his decent, and landed as though his handicap did not exist.

"Get out of bed, you wanker!" he snapped, striking a sleeping Denmark with his crutch. The Dane yelped and tumbled out of his bunk. "All hands on deck, now! Alfred, Matthew, that means you too! Go!"

"What's going on?" Matthew asked ,stumbling after the cook as the boat lurched once more.

Arthur twisted around just in time to catch the younger twin before he fell. He glanced between the twins with an intense gaze, more serious than any expression Matthew had seen on his face before.

"It's a storm, lads. A big one," he said soberly. "Everybody's going to have to pull together for this. _Everybody._"

_**TBC…**_

Random Note: "Kissing the gunner's daughter" refers to the practice by the British royal navy of bending a sailor over a ship's gun to receive harsh corporal punishment. A similar term, the "captain's daughter" referred to punishment using a cat o' nine tails. Yes, the British royal navy and army spanked and whipped their dissenters. I'm pretty sure they don't do it anymore, but the cat _was _ still used for judicial punishments right up into the 1940s…


	11. In Which the Storm Claims a Victim

It suddenly occurred to me that I never explained where this story's title comes from. "The Sea Cook" was the original name of the book that became Treasure Island, back when it was first being sterilized chapter by chapter the way people did in the old days. That's just a nerdy literary in-joke. Sorry about the month-long wait, I took November off for a NaNoWriMo, but now I'm back in action. Roll clip!

**The Sea Cook; or Hetalia's Treasure Island**

**Chapter Eleven: In Which the Storm Claims a Victim**

Rain pounded the ship, flooding the deck in spite of safety precautions and all the crewmen struggling to throw it overboard. The sails were still unfurled, flapping wildly in the fierce winds as the crew struggled to secure them.

As they stepped out of the galley, the twins were thrown to the side as a wave lurched up under the belly of the ship. Arthur caught them both in one arm, bracing them all against the doorframe.

"Lifelines, lads!" he called over the roaring wind. He set the boys back on their feet and lead them to the mast, where dozens of ropes were already bound to the wooden handles.

Arthur seized a free line and wrapped it around Matthew with long, strong swipes. "Tie it like this. Around both shoulders, through the belt, bowline knot, good and tight. You got that?"

"Yeah!" Alfred said, already following the directions on himself. Matthew wondered blurrily where his brother had learned the crafty little knot in the first place.

Arthur strapped Matthew in good and tight, then check Alfred's knot before grabbing a line for himself. "Good. You boys grab some pails and start bailing with the others."

"What about you?"

"I've got riggings to handle, now get a move on!"

That was all the encouragement that Alfred needed. He grabbed Matthew by the wrist and darted into the night, water sloshing around them up to their knees. Before the younger twin quite knew what was happening, a bucket was thrust into his hands and they were both scurrying back and forth to bail excess water from the deck.

Thunder crashed in the clouds above, illuminating the deck in brief flashes of violence and noise. All around them, the crew rushed to tend to their duties. Captain Gilbert stood on the upper deck, balanced on top of the railing like a cat and shouting over the noise.

"Put your backs in it, you bastards!" he roared, his voice carrying even over the roar of the wind. "No slacking off, any of you! You gotta pull together! Oh, for the love of uck…"

Kicking off the railing, he tumbled down through the rain and landed on his feet on the lower deck. He stormed across the deck and seized part of the rope that was struggling to raise the mainsail.

"Don't you dare let it slack up!" he shouted, grabbing hold and digging in his feet. "If that sail rips, I'll have all your heads! Now pull together! One, two, pull!"

His words, however well they carried over the wind, were lost to the men at the rear of the line. Those men scrambled for their footing and fumbled the rope which, without their extra support, began to slip from their crewmates' hands.

With a sputtering _crack_, a gunshot echoed directly above their heads. The slacking crew yelped and quickly secured their position. Vash, his pistol still warm in his hands, snapped. "On the clock, you assholes! Get pulling! _Now!_"

Terrified, the crewman obeyed. Gilbert smirked through the rain. "My kinda guy."

Together, they hoisted the great wrenches and rolled the great sail into place along the crossbar of the mast. There, half-a-dozen crewmen ran along the curved wood, scrambling into position to secure the cloth with ropes.

"Watch your footing!" Arthur warned as he hoisted himself up. "With only one leg, he couldn't climb the ratlines like most of his fellows and was instead nestled in a swing of ropes and hoisting himself up by the way of a pulley. He swung back on the wind, swung onto the crossbeam with the skill of a cat and snatched a coil of rope from the shoulder of a crewman Yong-Soo. "And don't you dare slack off on those knots!"

"Ain't you getting a little old for this, Kirkland?"

"Old or not, I can still whoop your ass half-way to heaven, boy," Arthur snarled. "now get tying!"

"Aye, sir!"

"Kirkland!"

Arthur looked up, his hands still darting through the familiar motions of tying the lines. Francis dangled from the rat lines just below, swaying in the wind. "Do you require any assistance up here?"

"We're already full to capacity!" Arthur shouted back. "Go make yourself useful elsewhere!"

Francis did not retreat, but instead grew closer, glaring at the shadowed figures that dotted the crossbeam. "Where are the _petites_?"

"If you mean the cabin boys, they're down below, bailing the deck."

"You left them on their own? In this storm?"

"I made sure they got belted in first." Arthur's scowl deepened as he almost lost his grip on the rope, but managed to grab on. "They're big lads, they can take care of themselves."

"Very well," Francis said with a frown. "I only hope that you know what you are doing."

"Of course I do!" Arthur roared over the howling wind. "Now get down there and make yourself useful, you bloody frog!"

Francis chuckled, saluted and released his hold on the ratlines. He slid down their knotted length with ease and sent a wave of water overboard in his wake when he landed.

Though he barely took notice as he darted past them, Elizaveta stood on the deck in bare feet and a bundled skirt, up to her knees in runoff as she helped toe wheel a heavy canon into its proper place.

"Push!" she shouted over the torrent, her voice mingling with the others. "Hold it steady, boys! Roderich!"

The young master ducked beneath his wife's arms, flinging a heavy cord around the metal shaft, through its base and into the rings that secured them to the deck.

Elizaveta grinned down at him through the heavy veil of her sopping wet hair. "You've always been so good with your knots."

"Darling," Roderich muttered, red in the face. "This is not the time."

"Impressive," said a voice from behind. "I never would've guessed you had it in you."

Roderich jumped, stumbled and lost his grip on the rope. Gilbert dove in at the last minute, caught the tie and latched it into place. He rolled to his feet and shouted to the group. "Weapons secured?"

"Aye, sir!" said the three crewmen as one.

"Then what the hell are you standing around for? Get your asses in gear!"

The group scattered all but Elizaveta, who was hoisting Roderich to his feet. The musician held her thankfully, but barely had time to stroke her cheek before Gilbert slapped him on the back. "Nice job, bastard. You and your honey make a nice team."

Roderich coughed, forcing air back into his lungs. "Thank. You."

"Anyway, we ain't got time to chat." Gilbert clapped him on the back once more, kissed Elizaveta's hand and blew away like the hurricane they were trapped n, shouting orders and leaving chaos in his wake.

Elizaveta clicked her tongue. "Son of a bitch."

"Liza, darling…"

"Don't 'Liza' me. Are you all right, Roderich?"

"I'm fine." The young master stumbled to his own feet and dragged a hand through his sopping wet hair, which was almost immediately washed back over his glasses. "Let's go. Hurry."

Hand-in-hand, the couple darted down the length of the ship, but they were cut off in mid-run by a swift little golden-haired blur. Elizaveta slid to a stop, yanked Roderich back and yelped, "Alfred!"

"Sorry, Miss Elizaveta!" Alfred called as he hurled the contents of his bucket over the side. "No time to talk!"

"Just be _careful _boy!"

"Yes ma'am!"

Like a mouse, as much as he hated that comparison, Alfred scrambled back across the sopping deck. With every shift across the sopping deck. With every shift of the boat, water sloshed across his ankles most of its pouring through drainage holes but some remaining pooled on the wood, and that had to be thrown out before the sensitive materials were damaged. Most of the older crewmen had been spirited off to other duties, so it was just Alfred and Matthew on this end, jumping over the coiling serpents of each others' safety lines and lurching with the rolling chip as they hurled bucketful after bucketful into the dark ocean below.

"We're doing great, Mattie!" the elder twin called in encouragement as he dove past his brother.

Matthew stumbled a bit, moving more slowly and cautiously than his enthusiastic twin. "Alfred, be careful."

"There's no time, Mattie! We've got to – woah!"

Mattie's lifeline tangled around Alfred's foot, sending him tumbling down. He yelped, his bucked went flying and Matthew's gasp was strangled by a mouthful of water.

At the last moment, Francis appeared from the dreary shadows and caught Alfred about the waist. "Got you! _Mon petite_, are you alright?"

Matthew sputtered through the water, got his choking under control and scurried over to his brother as the Frenchman set him on his feet. "Alfred, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Alfred scowled, brushing Francis off. The fear of the fall still pounded in his ears, the bass of its reverberations heightened by the adrenaline that rushed through his veins. "We have to keep moving."

"Now just yet," Francis warned, seizing the boy by the shoulder. He kept his hands there as the other reached down, tugging the rope from around the boy's leg. Matthew watched cautiously, swaying with the ship, as Francis squeezed and turned Alfred's ankle in all directions.

"Does that hurt at all?"

Alfred's frown deepened. "No."

"Ah, good," Francis said, finally letting go. "No damage then. You are lucky that this did not come to a sprain."

Alfred backed away from him, his annoyed scowl lost in the dark. Matthew grabbed his arm in a silent reprimand. The older twin scuffed his boot against the wood. "thanks."

"Think nothing of it." Francis grinned, picking up the lost bucket. "Now come, let us get back your duty before –"

A fork of lightning split the sky above, illuminating the entire ship for a split second. It was closely followed by a crackle of thunder and a terrified shout from the upper levels. "Incoming! Hit the deck!"

Matthew, his hands clutched over his ears, looked around wildly as the crewmen threw themselves to the floor. "What's going on?"

"Get _down_ boys!"

Seconds later, the twins were swept off their feet, first in Francis's arms, then by the huge wave that swept up behind them, over the deck, covering the ship. They were thrown against the side as the ship dipped down, disappearing under the wall of water for a split moment, their senses lost in the chaos of the sea and, oh god, there was no _air…_

The _Hetalia_ bobbed out of the ocean, shrugging off the monster of a wave like the true master of the sea she was. Finally, the water was gone and the air had returned. Alfred sucked in a lungful with a harsh gasp, choking a bit on the exhale. "God," he swore. "Mattie, you okay?"

"I'm fine," Matthew groaned, patting his own chest to make sure the water was clear. He lifted his head, peered into the dark and let his face go slack with horror. "Where's Francis?!"

Alfred twisted around, but there was no sign of the Frenchman. All they could see was the sharp, taunt line of rope that stretched past their heads, over the side of the ship and into the depths of the dark, inky sea.

_**TBC…**_


	12. In Which Two are Lost

**The Sea Cook; or Hetalia's Treasure Island**

**Chapter Twelve: In Which Two are Lost**

"Francis!" Matthew screamed over the wind. "Francis!"

"Mattie, the line!"

Alfred sprung up, grabbed Francis's lifeline with both hands, and pulled. A second later, Matthew was there too, struggling against the raging sea. The thick rope, sharp with harsh splintered fibers, split open the skin of their palms. Blood mixed with the cold salt water splashing over the vessel. It burned, but still they held tight.

"Boys!" a voice shouted over the storm. It was Arthur, swinging down from the mast on his pulley. "What the hell is going on?"

"Man overboard!" the twins chorused, still struggling with the weight. Just behind them, the rope was beginning to fray – Matthew could hear the fibers snapping even over the storm.

Arthur scowled in the dark. "Who?"

This time, only Alfred replied. "Bonnefoy!"

A crack rang through the night as the rope finally gave way. The recoil sent the boys swinging, crashing into each other as they were dragged to the edge of the ship. Arthur's eyebrows shot his forehead. He let go of the rope.

Alfred shouted in horror as the cook plummeted to the deck. At the last moment, Arthur seized the rope again, jolting his swing to a halt. He leapt free on its remnant momentum, snatched his crutch from his lap in midair, and swept to the twins' side. Reaching over both their shoulders, he grabbed the rope and pulled back until they were safely away from the edge and there was enough extra for him to grab on as well.

Twisting the end of the line around his arm, he demanded, "How long has he been down?"

"Less than two minutes."

"Lucky frog. He's still got a chance. Pull!"

Alfred and Matthew obeyed, and Arthur pulled with them. For a man balanced on only one leg, he was remarkably strong, acting as an anchor binding them and the rope to the deck. Fighting the fury of the gale became easier then, and the rope finally drew back into the ship.

Then it stopped, and something heavy thumped against the wooden haul.

"That's him!" Arthur called, bracing his stance. "Pull him in, boys!"

Matthew scrambled to the side. Alfred was just behind, still pulling on the rope. They groped into the darkness, seizing soaked clothes and grasping hands to haul the drowned figure into the ship.

Francis tumbled to the deck, dragging the twins down with him. Matthew tried to hold onto the man, but Francis pushed him away, rolling to his hands and knees seconds before water spewed from his mouth and nose. The Frenchman choked and sputtered, expelling burst after burst of water from his lungs.

"Easy there, you old frog," Arthur said, striking Francis on the back a few times to make sure it all came clear. "This isn't the first time you've gotten your fool head waterlogged. Belt up."

Francis laughed, though the sound was weak and pained. He looked up through his hair and gave the cook a weak smile. "Your concern is as touching as ever, Arthur."

Arthur thumped him once more, extra hard, and muttered, "You'll be fine. Bloody git."

"Francis?"

Matthew brushed his fingers against the shaking shoulder, his touch brief and hesitant, as though afraid the man would break with too much weight. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," Francis smiled at the boy and rested his hand over the smaller one. "Thanks to you boys. I am most grateful."

Matthew sniffled, wiping his free arm across his eyes to hide the tears. Alfred heaved a heavy sigh, rolling his aching shoulders and wincing at the pain in his hands.

A sharp whistle shot through the air – the first mate's signal. It was followed by a familiar coded rhythm, dispensing a message for the crew between a few long notes: "Vessel secured. All personal go below."

"Finally," Arthur groaned, undoing his lifeline with one hand and hobbling over on his crutch. He swung Francis's arm over his shoulders. "C'mon, boys. Let's get this drowned rat below. Alfred?"

"Yes, sir!" Alfred piped, and pulled the lifeline from around his body. Just as quickly, he undid Matthew's and scurried to stow the lines in their places. Matthew, meanwhile, wrapped an arm around Francis's waist to support him from the opposite side. Francis patted him warmly on the head.

They waited a moment until Alfred returned then, together, descended into the heart of the ship with the rest of the crew. None of them knew they were being watched.

"Kol kol kol kol kol…"

Ivan Braginski leaned back against the main mast, sipping at his metal flask of vodka as the rest of the crew disappeared below. He filed the scene away in his memory and sauntered across the rain-soaked, rolling deck as easily as though it were a sunny field. There were only a few crewmen left topside now, those unlucky bastards whose essential duties did not permit them shelter now that their vessel was secured against the storm.

At the very least, Feliciano Vargas did not seem to mind – he was whistling a cheery Italian folk tune as he checked the returned lifelines.

Ivan slipped up behind him, placed on his shoulder, and said, "Comrade Vargas."

Feliciano yelped, dropped the rope and jumped a foot. "Oh-oh," he gasped, wiggling in the Russian's grip. "Mr. Braginski. Hello."

Ivan grinned a bit wider, holding the Italian in place. "Hello, comrade. I would wish a word with you."

"O-oh?"

"Yes. You see, I require you assistance on a very important matter…"

**( - )**

Half an hour after the crew was called below, First Mate Ludwig paced the deck, restless. The storm was relatively calm now, especially in comparison to the mad wind that had ruled before, but Ludwig knew enough of the sea to know that would not last long. They were on the edge of the eye now, and the storm was swinging back their way. It was destined to be a long night for the battered _Hetalia_.

Still, that was only to be expected. Ludwig was not anxious about the storm. No, the nervous tension that nibbled at his gut beneath his heavy coat was rooted in a single problem.

He could not find Feliciano. _eHetHet_

His assistant and friend was rarely far from the fist mate's side. They had worked together for almost five years now, and Feliciano was ardent in expression his affection at almost all times. To be without his enthusiastic companion was disorienting. To be completely unable to find him was especially worrisome.

Ludwig was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice the odd position of Mr. Ivan Braginski until he literally walked into the man. He stumbled back, righted himself in a few steps and bristled from head to toe. "Mr. Braginski!" he snapped. "What is the meaning of this lollygagging?"

"Not lollygagging, sir," Ivan reported simply, never taking his eyes off the sea. "Watching."

"Watching? What in hell - ?"

"I'm afraid that Mr. Vargas is slipping away at a rather startling speed."

It took a second for Ludwig's shell-shocked mind to finally process the words. He darted to the side, shouting down into the water. "Feliciano!"

"Not overboard, sir. There."

Ivan pointed to a small yellow orb of light, which bobbed on the water at the edge of their visibility. Ludwig squinted, his heart pounding. "A lantern?"

"Da. Attached to a longboat. The storm rattled poor Mister Vargas quite a bit, you see. He desired to be certain that safety measures were secure. I obliged to lower him into the water and assuage his fears, but the tether, it seemed, had been nibbled by a rat." Ivan held up the frayed and broken line, his smile as solidly fixed on his features as ever. "Before I could raise the alarm, the current had swept the poor boy away. That's when you arrived, sir."

"There's no time," Ludwig hissed, diving for the lifelines. He attached his own to an extra length of cord, looped the end around the thick metal pegs and double-knotting it to secure the hold. "Raise the alarm, Mr. Braginski. When the lantern flashes twice, you and the men must reel us back in. You understand?"

"Of course, sir."

Without another word, Ludwig dove over the side of the ship. The rope uncoiled behind him like a whip, vanishing in the darkness.

Ivan watched the blonde disappear into the darkness. He took a long, measured draft of his vodka, which burned delightfully all the way down. The rope uncoiled and uncoiled until it hung taunt over the edge of the ship, unable to go any further. A moment later, the lantern flashed twice.

Ivan smiled to himself and drew a knife from his coat. With it, he snapped the line without a second thought and allowed it to disappear into the darkness. The light of the lantern continued to flash until it was finally swallowed by the storm and clouds.

Ivan hummed to himself, recalling the tune of Feliciano's old folk song. He dropped his now-empty flask into the sea and walked away from the scene without so much as a sound.

_**TBC…**_


	13. In Which the Sun Sets

**The Sea Cook; or Hetalia's Treasure Island**

**Chapter Thirteen: In Which the Sun Sets**

The loss of the first mate and his assistant was made known the next day at roll call. An inquiry was made. Quite a bit of beer was found missing from the liquor cabinet, as was a longboat. A handful of crewmen reported seeing the two, roaring drunk, heading for the deck. One of them must have fallen overboard, they said, and the other deployed the longboat to fetch him, only to be lost as well.

Captain Gilbert's normally shining face darkened at the news. As the noon-day sun brushed the top of their mast, he made the solemn announcement, led a short prayer of remembrance and disappeared into his cabin. No one had the heart or never to bother him for several hours.

It was Alfred Williams-Jones who finally approached the heavy oaken door. He hesitated only a moment, then rapped his knuckled against the door frame. The taps echoed dully through the thick wood. "Captain?"

There was no answer. The teen knocked again. "Captain Weillschmidt?"

He pressed his ear against the door. Still, there was no answer. Alfred tried the handle and found it to be unlocked. "I'm coming in."

He cracked open the door. The cabin beyond was as well-lit as the rest of the ship, which meant that it flickered with lamplight and the orange glow of the sunset, framed by shifting shadows on all sides. Cautiously, Alfred pushed open the door enough to step inside. "Captain Gilbert? Sir?"

Gilbert sat in his leather-bound chair, a draft of hard liquor in one hand and a small portrait in the other. His garnet eyes flickered to Alfred like all-too-brief flames. "Don't just stand there in the door, you idiot, get your ass in here."

Alfred obeyed, closing the door behind him. He watched the captain wearily, judging his moods. "Sorry to bother you."

"Cut the crap, Jones. What the fuck do you want?"

"…It's Williams-Jones, sir."

Garnet eyes met sapphire. Gilbert sighed and set the objects on his desk. "Sorry. Williams-Jones."

"S'okay." Alfred drew close. The bottle was half-full, but the glass was barely touched and the captain's words did not slur. It didn't take a genius to know who the portrait was of. Alfred nibbled his lower lip. "Captain, sir. Are you all right?"

"Fine," Gilbert muttered, heaving a heavy sigh. "As fine as a man can be, having sent his own brother into the drink."

Alfred winced. "It wasn't your fault, sir."

"That doesn't make it any easier," Gilbert snapped, and downed the entire glass in one long gulp. "Now what the hell do you want?"

Steeling his resolve, Alfred drew himself up tall. "I wanted to ask you about the map, sir."

Gilbert's eyes darted to the cabin door. It was still firmly closed. "What about it?"

"Mister Ludwig was in possession of it for the course of the journey. Now that he's…gone…what's going to happen to it?"

Gilbert sloshed the bitter dregs of his drink around the bottom of the glass. "I suppose it'll stay in Ludwig's room, nice and secure, at least until we get a new navigator appointed."

"New navigator?"

"Aye," said Gilbert, too buzzed to recognize the hollow disbelief in the cabin boy's voice. "There's bound to be some bastard on this ship able to take over, we'll probably finalize it about the time we get to that blasted island. Until then, that cabin's the safest place for it, mark my words."

"I…I see."

Alfred nibbled his bottom lip and shifted his feet awkwardly. Gilbert leveled his eerie red-eyed gaze over the top of his glass. "Is there a problem, Mr. Williams-Jones?"

"No, sir," Alfred muttered, and bobbed his head in a slight bow. "I'm sorry to bother you. Good day."

He turned to leave, but only one foot made it out the door before the captain called again. "Boy. Alfred."

"Yes, sir?" Alfred glanced back.

The captain's head rested in his cupped palm, his elbow supporting him above the top of the desk. His gaze, softer now, lay once more on his framed portrait. "You're the elder, aren't you? Of our twins."

"Yes, sir."

"And you look out for your brother?"

Alfred tried to swallow but found that he could not. "Always, sir."

The corners of Gilbert's lips twitched up just the tiniest bit. "Good," he said. "Keep up the good work."

Alfred said nothing. There was nothing else to say.

**( - )**

First Mate Ludwig's quarters remained untouched in the hours after his death, though the door was known to be unlocked. The crew, superstitious as they were, gave the place a wide berth to avoid bad luck and curses from the deceased. The officers did the same, but only out of respect.

Guilt and fear gnawed at Alfred's gut as he slipped into the abandoned cabin. Violating the private quarters of a dead man – two dead men if the hammock in the corner was any indication – made a foul taste rise in the back of his throat. Still, he could not turn back. Not now.

Ludwig's keys rested on a rung by the door, jingling quietly on their orderly ring. Alfred lifted the ring into his grip and sorted through them as he moved about the room. Here were door keys, to the galley, to the liquor closet, to the captain's quarters. This one felt like a trunk key, a safe-box, a desk drawer. But where would Ludwig have kept the map?

On a whim, Alfred went to the desk first. It was smaller and much less ornate than the elaborate monster in the captain's officer. Three drawers rested to the side of the chair, the bottom as large as both top ones combined. All were locked.

Alfred tried the keys one by one until he found their matches, his palms warm and slick with nervous sweat. The first drawer contained parchment, quills and a sextant – the standard tools of the navigation trade. The second held ink, a few official documents and a compass. The third held stacks and stacks of reports on the workings of the ship and Ludwig's logbook, a thick volume bound in smooth black leather. And beneath that…

"Yes," Alfred whispered to himself, drawing the map, _his_ map, from the very back of the drawer. The familiar leather of its sheaf was warm in his hands, and the black cord that wound it closed curled around his fingers with familiarity. With shaking hands, he pulled the sheepskin parchment from the envelope's tuck and spread it out across the desk. As always, his breath was stolen by the beauty of its craft. The details, the precession. Truly, it was a work of art.

With a feather-light touch, Alfred ran his fingers down the light groove of the island's borders. He had seen many maps in his time, most of them beautiful in their own ways, but none had ever attracted him as this one did. Was it the treasure, calling to him from across the sea, through the ink? Was it the promise of adventure? The things he had seen? The things he had yet to see?

Alfred could not say. He knew only two things: one, that this map belonged to him. Antonio entrusted it to him and his brother, and he knew that Matthew heard its call the same way that he did. It was a part of them, but separate, a relative born of parchment and ink rather than flesh and blood.

And because of that, he knew part two: he would not allow this map to be given away without his consent.

He glanced around, half-expecting the Captain or some horrid ghost to come bursting from the closet to catch him in the act. Of course, there was no such thing about, and there was no one to witness as he tucked the precious enveloped beneath his shirt and used his belt to strap it tight against his back.

Replacing the keys, Alfred slipped from the first mate's quarters like a rabbit from its hole. No one was willing to be near that door, so there was no one to see as he scurried, with his back perfectly straight, down into the crew's bunkroom.

Thankfully, the place was mostly unoccupied – besides himself, the only one about was the look-out, Yong-Soo, taking advantage of his brother Yao's turn at mast to get some much-needed rest. His snores echoed even from across the room, so Alfred felt secure enough to draw the map from his back.

With it, he also drew his switchblade and used it to cut a slit in the mattress that he shared with Matthew. The old straw burst from the slit the moment the cloth gave way, but the mattress held its proper shape, and that was enough. Carefully, he slipped the map into the gap until it lay along the same grain as the mattress. When he stepped back to observe his handiwork, there was no sign that anything had been done.

_Perfect_, he thought, tapping the leather case to makes sure it was secure. It felt warm, like a living person. Like a relative. Like his brother.

Captain Gilbert's words echoed in Alfred's mind, weighing down his heart. A familiar sadness sank in and, suddenly, he was loath to be alone. He went to find his brother.

**( - )**

It was nearly sunset now. The distant blue horizon gulped down the orange orb like a great fish swallowing a golden pearl, dying the sky all in reds and oranges and fire.

Matthew sat on a barrel, watching the scene unfold. His head and arms rested on the side of the ship, and his feet kicked listlessly at the air. He only looked up when his twin rolled a second barrel up beside him. "Oh. Hey, Al."

"Hey," Alfred clambered onto the makeshift seat and scooted it closer to his brother. "You okay, Mattie?"

"Yeah." Matthew nodded. "And you, Al?"

"I'm fine."

"Ah. That's good."

They turned back to the sea. The breeze was even and the gentle swells barely trembled against the _Hetalia's_ haul, yet salty spray still licked at their faces like the grooming of a dozen cats.

Matthew took a deep breath through his nose and released with a tired sigh. "It's so calm now. So quiet."

"Yeah."

"It's hard to imagine it was so rough before."

"Yeah."

"I wonder if…Alfred, what are you doing?"

"Nothing," Alfred muttered, resting his head against Matthew's shoulder and pulling his brother ever closer. "Just keep talking, Mattie."

"Do…Do I have to?"

"Yeah. You don't do it enough. And I like hearing your voice."

"…Okay."

They stayed that way for a long while as Matthew spoke of everything and nothing. Alfred, for once in his life, was quiet, absorbing his brother's words and presence like a sponge. If anyone saw them, they did not see fit to disturb. Until the sun disappeared, the world was boiled down to two brothers and the everlasting sea.

_**TBC…**_


	14. In Which the Betrayal is Uncovered

**The Sea Cook; or Hetalia's Treasure Island**

**Chapter Fourteen: In Which the Betrayal is Uncovered by Accident**

In the following weeks, the ship returned to a semblance of normality. The hole in discipline left in Ludwig's absence was filled by Vash and, of all people, Miss Elizaveta, who requisitioned a frying pan from Kirkland's galley and proved quite proficient in wielding it against wayward crewmen. The position as officer and tactician was supplemented by Roderich who, though he lacked navigation skills, understood the workings of a ship well enough to take over those duties despite ongoing personal conflicts with the captain.

For their part, Alfred and Matthew continued to learn voraciously. Despite his questionable position as cook, Arthur proved a most capable tutor, instructing Alfred in everything from rigging the sails to attending minor wounds. Likewise, Francis continued to shower Matthew with much-needed encouragement. The voyage continued on without incident right up until they day they were bound to arrive at their destination.

His morning chores complete, Matthew looked for his brother and was surprised to find him in the galley rather than above deck. "Al?"

"Hey, Mattie!" Alfred waved from the back. He was standing on the counter, putting a newly-scrubbed pot away on the top shelf, but he hopped down as his brother approached. "Done with your chores?"

"Yeah, you too?"

Alfred grinned. "Yup!"

"And you're not going above deck?"

"You think we should?" Alfred asked, squirming like a schoolboy about to embark on his first day of class. "We're supposed to reach land any hour now, right? We'll finally make it."

"We sure will." Matthew smiled. "We should watch, eh?"

"Definitely! But let's grab a snack first."

Alfred pulled a stool from the lines of tables up alongside the huge apple barrel. It had once been a wine cask, its remnant fumes keeping the several dozen bushels of fruit slightly fresher throughout their month-long journey. It only came up to elbow height on the twins but, as it was almost empty, Alfred needed the boost to reach the bottom.

"Jeez, it's a good thing we're almost to land," he said, looking his waist over the wooden edge. "There ain't a lot of fruit left."

"With the way you've been eating it, I'm not surprised." Matthew laughed, and suddenly sparked upon a wicked little idea. He waited until his brother was fully extended, stretching on the tips of his toes, and yanked the stool away.

"Hey!" Alfred yelped and tumbled head-first into the barrel.

Matthew chortled at his brother's kicking feet disappeared over the edge. A few thumps later and Alfred's voice came again. "Real funny, Mattie!"

"Sorry, Al. I couldn't resist."

"Ha-ha. Now pull me out, I'm stuck."

Mathew frowned in disbelief. "You are not."

"Am too! That's how low the apples are! Now get me out!"

Still not completely convinced, Matthew pushed the stool against the barrel once more and peered in to see for himself. Alfred sat on the bottom, scowling up at him.

"You big baby," Matthew sighed. "You're always like this when you don't get your way. Give me your hand."

As instructed, Alfred took the offered hand. His eyes flinted and that was all Matthew had time to register before he, too, was pulled head-first into the barrel.

"Alfred!"

"Serves you right!" Alfred laughed, rolling under the swings of Matthew's elbows and knees as the younger brother struggled to right himself. A number of over-ripened apples cracked and burst beneath them, but neither boy noticed until they finally got themselves situated, with Matthew practically sitting in Alfred's lap.

Matthew pouted, puffing out his cheeks. "Not funny, Al."

"Payback is payback, brother mine. Apple?"

Matthew huffed but took the apple his twin offered him. Alfred found another for himself and polished it smartly on his shirt. "There we go. Snack acquired. Now, let's go –"

_BLAM!_

The door at the stop of the galley stairs slammed open. The twins jumped in surprise and Alfred dropped his apple. Matthew stole a glance out a knothole on the side of the barrel and swallowed.

"Braganski," he breathed.

"_Kol kol kol kol kol…"_

As one, the twins' breath caught in their throats. That strange sound, such horrible laughter, bounced around their heads as clearly as it chased them the night the Admiral Benbow burned. As one, they pressed together against the side of the barrel, as far from Braganski as they could. Their hands moved both to hug and to cover each other's mouth, muffling any reflexive whimpers or screams. Their eyes focused on the hole in the wood, their only window to the outside world, where the monster lurked in wait.

Braganski saunted between the long tables as though he owned the ship, chuckling his horrid chuckle and taking drafts of his silver flask. If he was drunk, he did not show it, his sea legs as steady as ever right up until he plopped into the chair normally reserved for Squire Edelstein.

He did not stay lonely long. The door opened again, ushering in Denmark, Aussie and Denmark's quiet "keeper," Norway. Another few moments brought in Iceland, and Yao wandered in from the barracks. Soon it seemed the whole crew, with the exception of the officers, the look-out and Francis, were gathered together.

The twins' hearts pounded in their chests and they exchanged baffled looks. It was nowhere near time for a meal, and no whistle was sounded to summon the crew. What was going on?

The door opened one final time, then it closed and locked.

"So. We all here, then?"

Matthew felt Alfred's gasp against the palm of his hand. The last crewman traversed the stairs slowly, every other footstep replaced by the hollow thump of wood against wood.

"All save for Yong-Soo," Yao reported. "He is still on lookout.:

"As he should be. Good."

Arthur Kirkland came to a stop at the base of the stairs, finally in full view of the boys' peephole. Alfred leaned forward. Matthew pulled him back.

The crew was silent, watching Arthur intensely. Arthur met and matched each steely gaze before he finally addressed Ivan Braganski. "Well?"

"Well what?"

Arthur scowled and strode across to snatch the flask from Ivan's hand. "Don't play coy with me, you sod. Did you get it or not?"

"'It?'"

"The map!"

The gathered crew rustled with nervous tension before settling down again, all eyes now on Braganski. Ivan licked his lips, savoring the last lingering drops of vodka, and heaved a put-upon sigh. "No."

In seconds, the crew was in an uproar, with Arthur loudest of all. "What the bloody hell do you mean, no?"

"I was unable to procure the map," Ivan said slowly and sweetly, a rather terrifying grin on his heavy-set features.

Arthur growled like a lion and instantly the crew was silent again. Even balanced on his one leg, the cook was formidable now, glaring at the seated Russian in fury and disgust.

"We only went through with this fool strategy of yours because you said you could get us the map," Arthur snarled. "Tell me, what was the point of murdering the first mate and waiting the last week for things to settle if you aren't going to get us that blasted map?"

"It was not for lack of trying on my part, _captain_," Ivan said with entirely too much cheer, skewing the last word into more of an insult than a respectful title. "I turned the first mate's quarters inside and out and discovered many interesting things, but our treasure map was not one of them."

"Then where the bloody hell is it?"

"Someone else must have acquired it before I was given the opportunity, da?"

Arthur struck the barrel with his crutch in anger, rattling the twins in their hiding place. Jade eyes scanned the room, silently demanding that any man who knew of the map come forward.

None came.

Arthur took a deep breath and forced his body to relax. He was calm in the next moment, facing off with the crew in silence, leaving them all to their thoughts.

"Well then," he said at last. "So much for that particular advantage, but no matter. Once we get control of the ship, we'll find that map. This is just a minor set back."

"Da," said Ivan, rising from his seat. "But I suspect it is not the only obstacle we now face, is it, _captain_?"

Arthur glared up at the Russian who now towered over him. "Now what the hell are you going on about?"

"I mean your cabin boys."

For a second, Arthur faltered, his crutch shifting a full inch to the side. "What about them?"

"You seem to have ground quite fond of our little mice, captain," Ivan taunted, running his hand along the edge of the barrel. "If it is an act, it is most convincing. One would almost believe that you had a soft spot for them – especially the loud little one."

The crew drew back, their whispers rustling like fallen leaves. Arthur stood his ground. "Are you trying to suggest I've gone soft?"

Ivan's grin widened like a gash. "Certainly not. But I do wonder if your new-found, ah, _affection_ for the children will make it difficult for you toe lead our eventually mutiny against them."

Arthur growled again, low and dangerous like a cornered lion. He wrapped his hand in Ivan's scarf and pulled him to eye-level.

"No one's got any right to question my devotion here, least of all you," he hissed. "So let me make this clear: I care for only one thing in this world, and that is _our_ treasure. But as you seem to have forgotten, we still need to locate the blasted thing. Edelstein is only a patsy – those boys are the ones who own the map. Getting close to them gets us closer to it."

"Ah, so that is why," Ivan said, his smile never faltering and his tone unconvinced. "But I was making no accusations. I was only making an observation."

Arthur sneered at that but, before their argument could continue, a whistle blasted from up on deck, accompanied by the muffled sound of Yong-Soo whooping and hollering high above.

From the back of the room, Aussie cheered. "Land ho!"

"All hands on deck, gents!" Arthur announced, releasing Ivan. The crew did not need to be told twice, storming up the stairs and ladder with great whooping and cheering. Soon, the galley was empty, all save for Arthur, who was taking his time.

The cook leaned on his crutch, half his weight supported by the wall beside the stairs, and ran a hand through his hair. His eyes scanned the now-empty cabin, surveying the overturned stools and abandoned bottles with disgust. He stayed there for a while after, then turned and hobbled up the stairs.

His thumping crutch echoed the pounding of Matthew's heart. The younger twin did not move until he was absolutely sure that the crew – no, the traitors, the _pirates_ – were gone.

He turned to his brother. "Al?"

Alfred didn't respond. His hands long ago ell to his knees, where they shook in tight fists. His face was hidden behind his hair.

"Alfred?" Matthew ventured cautiously. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Alfred snapped. "I'm just an idiot."

"What? Al!"

Alfred pulled himself from the barrel. Matthew scrambled behind, rolling over the edge just in time to see Al pull his switchblade from his belt. He was so proud of the gift, he wore it daily and used it wherever he could. Now his hand shook as he opened it, and he could barely stand to look at the blade. He hurled it against the far wall, where it lodged in the wood like a dart.

Alfred sniffed once and covered his eyes with his arm. Matthew touched his shoulder. "Al?"

"You were right Mattie," Alfred muttered. "I never should've listened to him. To that…I'm such an idiot."

"Oh, Al." Matthew hugged his twin around the shoulders. "You're not an idiot, really."

Alfred sniffed and lowered his arm. Though no tears fell, his eyes were red. It gave birth to a great anger in Matthew's heart.

He would not, could not forgive this.

"We have to tell the captain," Alfred finally said. "They're going to turn against him…us…soon. We have to warn him, so he can make a plan."

Mattie nodded, taking his brother's hand. "Let's go."

Together, they hurried back up the stairs and got their first glimpse of land in almost a month.

_**TBC…**_


End file.
